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COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT.
The Best English Essays
EDITED BT
SHERWIN CODY
A Selection from the World's Greatest Short Stories. i8mo. $i.oo net.
A Selection from the Best En- glish Essays. i8mo. ^i.oonet.
In Preparation
The World's Greatest Ora- tions. i8mo. $i.oo net.
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A SELECTION FROM THE BEST ENGLISH ESSAYS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE HISTORY OF ENGLISH PROSE STYLE |
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CHOSEN AND ARRANGED WITH HISTORICAL & CRITICAL INTRODUCTIONS By SHERWIN CODY EDITOR or " THE WORLd's GREATEST SHORT STORIES," AND AUTHOR OF '<THE ART OF WRITING AND SPEAKING THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE" |
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CHICAGO . A. C. McCLURG ^ COMPANY . MCMIII |
THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.
Two Copies Receiver'
Cvfy«i'r^^ Entry
(tLk'^% O^ XXo. Nc
COPY B.
Copyright
By a. C. McClurg & Co
A.D. 1903
C4
Published May 23, 1903
UNIVERSITY PRfcSS • JOHN WILSON AND SON * CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A.
n On
.I-
TO JOHN FRANKLIN GENUNG, Ph.D.,
Professor of Rhetoric at Amherst College
Contents
Page
Preface xi
General Introduction — The English Essay and English Prose Style :
I. Historical Review xvii
II. Style, or the Artistic Element in Prose . xxv
III. The Possibilities of Prose xxxii
I. Bacon : Master of Condensation .... 3
Of Studies (version of 1597) . . . . 5
Of Studies (version of 1625) . . . . 6
Of Truth 8
Of Friendship 11
II. Swift : the Greatest English Satirist ... 23
A Tale of a Tub 26
The Bookseller's Dedication to the Right
Honourable John Lord Somers . . 26 The Epistle Dedicatory to His Royal
Highness Prince Posterity .... 31
Preface 38
The Three Brothers and their Coats
[Sect. II] 39
Vlll
Contents
III.
IV.
Addison : First of the Humorists , , Sir Roger De Coverley in the Country
Sir Roger at Home . . .
Sir Roger and Will Wimble .
Sir Roger at Church . . . The Man of the Town . . . The Fan Exercise ....
Lamb : Greatest of the Humorists Letter to Coleridge .... A Dissertation upon Roast Pig Mrs. Battle's Opinions on Whist Poor Relations
«Im-
Page
55 57 57 62
65 69
72
79 82 84
94 103
De Quincey : Inventor of Modern passioned Prose " .... The English Mail Coach . . , Sect. I — The Glory of Motion
Going down with Victory
Sect. II— The Vision of Sudden Death
Sect. Ill — Dream- Fugue : Founded
on the Preceding Theme of Sudden
Death 154
Levana and Our Ladies of Sorrow {Suspiria de Profundis) 165
"5 118 120 126 131
VI. Carlyle : the Latter- Day Prophet Characteristics
177
180
VII. Emerson : the Lecturer 237
Self- Reliance 240
Contents ix
Page
VIII. Macaulay: the Rhetorician 277
The Puritans (Essay on Milton) . . . 278 Boswell's " Life of Johnson " . ... 284 The Perfect Historian (Essay on His- tory) 321
IX. Ruskin: the Impassioned Critic . . . . 329
Sea-Painting (Modern Painters, Vol. I.) . 333 The Virtues of Architecture (Stones of
Venice, Vol. II.) 347
The Crown of Wild Olive (Introduction
or Preface) 360
X. Matthew Arnold : the Intellectual Critic 3 79
Sweetness and Light (Culture and Anarchy) 382
PREFACE
A PREFACE is an invention to enable an author to argue with his critics without disturbing the general reader, who is expected to skip the preface. The remarks in this preface are addressed to a very small number of persons; but they are the persons whose voices are most likely to be heard, while the multitude (if by any chance this volume should have a multitude) of common readers will remain pro- foundly quiet.
I wish to answer several questions which I as a critic have put to myself as an editor of essays : Are selections a cheap substitute for complete works? or are they better than complete works? or should they not be attempted at all?
My answer as an editor to that threefold ques- tion is, that for the common reader, whose time is limited, the complete works of an author are almost useless because of their bulk and the time necessary to get through them. As a result, com- plete works are put on library shelves, there to remain unread. Any man who can help his fel- lows to read more successfully is a public bene-
xii Preface
factor. If an editor can separate the work which the common reader will care to read from that which he will not care to read, so that with the limited time at the reader's disposal and limited mental energy remaining after the drudgery of life has had its share, some parts of a great author will actually get read, that editor is performing a public service by selection, and a service that no man can perform in any other possible way.
Now how can this selection be made so that it will have the desired effect ?
Many competent judges have asserted that " selections are a snare and a delusion." I know very well what they mean, and agree with them. They refer to the scrappy "specimens" of authors' libraries that make no other pretension than to be cheap substitutes for vastly larger collections of complete works. It kills a literary work to muti- late it. But selection of complete portions even of longer works need not be mutilation.
We have no special difficulty in selecting novels, since each novel constitutes a volume, and we can buy and read the volume we wish. It is not necessary to place Dickens's complete works along five feet of our library shelves in order to get " David Copperfield." A short story or an essay, however, cannot conveniently or economically be printed in a separate volume. Yet it is just as separate and distinct a work of literary art as a novel is. Each essay and each short story ought to stand on its own feet, and be judged quite by
Preface xili
itself, just as each poem or oration ought to be judged. No greater service can be performed for^ such a short masterpiece than taking it away from its fellows and setting it by itself. It is like re-' moving a shapely maple from the heart of the forest, where it is surrounded on all sides by great pines that overshadow it, and planting it beside the town pump, where every passerby may look up with admiration at its beautiful proportions and feel gratitude in his heart for the friendly shade. This is very different from chopping that tree up into fence-posts and using them to form an ugly barrier around, let us say, a moss-covered tombstone.
The only unity that can usually be found con- necting several essays is the style of the author; but that forms a practical reason for placing several distinct and complete works of art, such as complete ^ essays are, side by side in one vol- ume. In the present undertaking, the ideal would be to print the work chosen from each author in a separate volume. Each has been treated with his own separate introduction, so that this could easily be done if it were mechanically desirable. For the sake of economy and convenience to the
1 It is to be noted that the division of their work made by authors is not the only sign of completeness. Macaulay's descrip- tion of the Puritans in the Essay on Milton is complete in itself, and so is the study of sea-painting selected from Ruskin's " Modern Painters" for this volume, though the brief description of Turner's " Slave Ship " at the end would be but a fragment, since it is not intelligible except as an illustration of Ruskin's argument.
xiv Preface
reader, all are printed in one volume, but in such a way that the reader is invited to read and con- sider only one author at a time in precisely the same way that he would if he had a set of ten or a dozen little volumes on his library shelves, one of which he would take down and read to-day and another to-morrow. Each group contains all that any person should think of trying to digest at one time. If more were to be swallowed it would result in mental dyspepsia.
One more question remains for brief consider- ation. The critic in me asks the editor, Why do you undertake to write on " prose style," after De Quincey and Pater and all the ten thousand others? and how will it help to promote a public habit of reading essays?
I reply that I have not undertaken a discussion of style for the purpose of exploiting any special critical or philosophic ideas, but only for a purely practical object. I believe that no man thinks well unless he can express himself well, and that it is the duty of every man and woman of intelligence and culture to set systematically about acquiring a greater command of expression through his native language. Self-expression is a simple means of testing one's thoughts, even if the ex- pression goes no farther than one's own closet. But conversation and written letters afford an invaluable means of testing one's ideas by the ideas of others, if one has command of the me- dium of expression. Command of that medium.
Preface xv
and the habit and practice of using it, I hold to be indispensable to any adequate culture.
Now essays have two especial uses : They give a certain intellectual pleasure that is denied to the novel or drama, with their rapid movement and their appeal to the universal emotions of the hu- man heart, and that is likewise denied to the poem, with its lofty atmosphere and highly artificial structure, so far removed from the plain level of everyday prose (best typified in the prose essay). The other special use of the masterpieces of the great essayists is in affording to every one models of style, or ways of using words, exactly suited to everyday conversation and business and social letter-writing. Therefore w^hile we are reading essays for the intellectual pleasure that they give, we ought at the same time to be studying the method of each writer in using words, with a practical eye to our own needs in the direction of a better command of words. No one who would take any intellectual pleasure in reading essays ought to ignore the other element of style.'^
'' Self-Reliance," by Emerson, is used by special arrangement with and permission of Houghton, Mifilin & Co., the authorized publishers of Emer- son's works.
1 Another reason for the study of " style" in connection with essays will be found in the General Introduction,
GENERAL INTRODUCTION
THE ENGLISH ESSAY AND ENGLISH PROSE STYLE
HISTORICAL REVIEW
IT is interesting to note the form impressed upon nearly every species of writing by the original mode of publication — a form re- tained in greater or less degree long after the merely mechanical method of publication had been wholly changed. Thus epic poetry was originally the chanted narrative of the wandering minstrel, telling of heroic deeds and strange adventures more or less historic. The lyric poem was originally a song — of love or some other intense emotion too shy to show its undraped form in any other atmosphere than the rosy twi- light of the song. The modern short story was first told by travellers in taverns, and to this day it is not uncommon to find a little tavern vulgarity hanging about it. The first modern novel ( Rich- ardson's ''Pamela") was a series of letters. Dickens and Thackeray were first published in shilling parts, and that method of publication so fixed uporr the modern novel its characteristic
xviii General Introduction
of length}^ formlessness that even to this day the defect is being thrown off with the utmost difficulty.
In early times, in Greece for example, prose had two methods of publication, namely, through the mouth of the orator in places of political debate, and through the mouth of the philosophic lecturer in his academic grove, where he talked with his pupils in a sort of conversational monologue (ex- emplified in the writings of Plato). As this latter kind of prose could not be indulged in by many, it received little or no attention rhetorically. Aris- totle's treatise on rhetoric was devoted wholly to the art of public speaking.
So it came about that everything that was not an oration or a lecture was expressed only in poetry. That narrowing of the field of prose due to the original form of publication has per- sisted in the minds of many even to this day, and scholars and wTiters on rhetoric have taken little notice of the new-fangled forms of prose that began to come into use only so short a time ago as two hundred years. Our textbooks on rhetoric are still based on Aristotle, and Plato is held up as the only model of a perfect prose style for all occasions except those of public speaking. — -The beginning of modern English prose as a fine art may be conveniently dated from the King James translation of the Bible. It is a curious thing that a translation should give us new forms of prose style, and that we should so constantly
General Introduction xix
refer to the English Bible rather than simply to the Bible as originally written. The fact is that the most literary portions of the Bible were orig- inally written as poetry ; but when the translators had to turn this Hebrew poetry into English they of course found it impossible to make the transla- tion take the form of English verse, and were confronted with the task of discovering a worthy expression in prose. The success of Hebrew poetry in English prose was so apparent, and came with such universal force into the education of every English-speaking man and woman, that English prose was exalted to a position that mere prose never could have held in Greece or Rome. It would not be difficult to trace all our modern " prose poetry " and ^' impassioned prose " to such masterpieces as " The Book of Job," " The Psalms," '' Ecclesiastes," " Song of Solomon," etc.
Even simple prose found a new form in the translation of the New Testament. Christ w^as not a lecturer or monologue talker, like Socrates.^ He merely " conversed " with his disciples. In the New Testament for the first time we find ordinary conversation raised to the level of per- manent literature. The addition to the possibil- ities of prose was one of the utmost importance,
1 The reader in looking over the dialogues of Plato will soon perceive that the lay characters are mere figures of straw set up for rhetorical purposes. Moreover, Socrates talked of philosophic ideas, while Christ appeared more as the friend offering sympathy, consolation, and advice.
XX General Introduction
and the New Testament formed the training school for all our most delightful conversational essayists from Addison to Lamb.
In addition to the oratorical and disquisitional (or lecture) styles handed down to us by the ancients, and the prose poetry and conversational styles given us by the Old and New Testaments, ^English literature had already received in embryo the story-telling style of the traveller in the inn as it had been caught and fixed in literature by Boccaccio in the " Decameron." The *' Decam- eron " was soon reinforced by the " Arabian Nights," which had come into existence about the same time as the " Decameron," though unknown to the English.
We may now trace in the English prose essay (with side glances at English prose fiction) the unfolding and development of these five elemen- tary prose types.
The first great English essayist, Bacon, was probably not so much influenced by the Bible as were all who followed him. He developed the conversational style in the essay in an original way from classic models, though the result was for secular purposes not unlike that for loftier purposes, which came from the sayings of Christ recorded in the Gospels. Bacon was an admir- able conversationist, and he developed his powers in that line, and especially as a wit after the Elizabethan manner, by a systematic study of "apophthegms" (as he called them). Restocked
General Introduction xxi
himself with wit in advance, so to speak, by keep- ing voluminous notebooks, in which he jotted down every clever sentence that occurred to him, so that on some suitable occasion he might intro- duce it in conversation. He also picked up and recorded the epigrammatic or witty sayings of others. Realizing that some of these notes of his were excellent of their kind, he published them in the first edition of his *' Essays." In later editions the simple notes were developed into more consecutive and perfectly rounded compositions.
Of course there was nothing particularly new in the mere form of these epigrammatic and highly condensed sentences, for imder the name " proverbs " and " epigrams V they had been known since the beginning of literature; but the accident which led Bacon to shape a group of such condensed sayings into a rounded essay gave a new form to written and published prose, the modern development of which we see in Carlyle, and especially in Emerson. "
Perhaps the first prose writer to show the full effect of the style of the English Old Testament was Milton. He caught at the very beginning and turned most effectively to his uses that pe- culiar prose cadence which takes the place of metre in poetry. He also gave his writings the imaginative quality of the Old Testament prose poetry. As Milton's prose was employed for the most part in controversial literature, however, it
xxii General Introduction
is as a poet that he will be remembered in literary history.
Almost at the same time another writer gave us a practical application of the style of the New Testament. This was Bunyan in " The Pilgrim's Progress." In his " parables " Christ had made a somev/hat new application of the old '' fable." Bunyan's book was an enlarged parable. His style had all the simplicity of everyday conver- sation, and he showed clearly how a plain story told in so simple a style might be elevated by the moral significance, and by this almost alone, to the rank of the classics.
The most simple written expression of con- versation, however, is found in friendly letters. When paper became cheap enough so that letters could easily be written, this style had a natural and spontaneous development. Steele was the first to suggest the idea of printed letters filled with town gossip. His " Tatler," " Spectator," and " Guardian " were little more than daily let- ters in which the gossip and conversation of the wags and wits at the coffee-houses were com- municated to a much larger circle of friends. Addison, who had been brought up on the English Bible, was quick to see the value of this method of literary composition, and in the " Spectator " he added to the mere secular town gossip of Steele something of the moral style of the New Tes- tament. C So it was that conversational letter- writing became a literary form of the English
General Introduction xxiii
language. Here was the beginning of the essay in its most popular form. Johnson and Gk)ld- smith followed in the steps of Steele and Addi- son; and finally in Charles Lamb the humorous letter-like essay reached its zenith of perfection."
Almost at the same time that Steele and Addi- son were giving us the " Spectator," another form of essay was added to English literature by Swift.
Though Swift seems to us one of the most unclerical and morally repulsive men among the great writers of English literature, still I believe that a careful study of his work will show that he was the literary type par excellence of the preacher of his day. That was the day of ''hell-fire, thunder-and-lightning" sermons. The preachers got their cue from the prophets of the Old Testament. As soon as the Bible was trans- lated they seized upon the denunciations of the old Hebrew preachers as furnishing exactly the literary form they were in need of, and bran- dished their new-found weapons with almost demoniac glee. They were intensely in earnest, and were fighting the devil upon his own ground. The warfare was prodigious, and it is not strange that the amenities of peace were often brushed ruthlessly aside. As General Sherman said, " War is hell " — war upon the devil as well as human combat. In this ferocious moral attack upon the sins of the world Dean Swift was easily the greatest giant of them all. Morose and ill- natured as he w^as, he meant well, even in his
xxiv General Introduction
" Modest Proposal " for eating children. His satirical arrows never missed, and they were shot with almost superhuman strength. If the devil was at that time leading his forces in person, how he must have wished that the great Dean were upon his side!
We may see the influence of Swift in Carlyle, and also in the later work of Ruskin ("Fors Clavigera"). But in his field of devilish satire. Swift stands supreme in English literature, and perhaps in any literature.
The letter-writing style as used by Richardson in " Pamela " and '' Clarissa Harlowe " became incorporated in the English novel ; and in Thack- eray we see the good-humored and humorous preaching of Addison perfectly assimilated and adapted to the requirements of the novelist. In- deed in recalling Bunyan, Swift (in ''Gulliver"), Goldsmith, and Thackeray, we realize what a debt the novel owes to the essay.
One more element remains to be considered, and that is the lyrical form and use of prose. De Ouincey in his '' Confessions of an English Opium-Eater," and even more in " The English Mail Coach " and " Suspiria de Profundis " (which were in the nature of a sequel to the ''Con- fessions"), was the first to show the peculiar lyrical powers of prose in modern essay writing,^* though in " Ecclesiastes " and other parts of the Old Testament we have as thorough-going "prose poetry " as ever De Quincey gave us. But De
General Introduction xxv
Quincey was far outdone in this field by one who followed him, namely, Ruskin, in whose hands lyrical prose has reached its extreme development In the novel, too, it was immensely exploited by Dickens.
The latest development of the English prose essay is a return to the Greek of Plato, and no better representative of this rejuvenescence of the classic spirit could be found than Matthew Ar- nold. But these Hellenic moderns have also been largely influenced by the French style of such men as Sainte-Beuve, Flaubert, and Daudet, to men- tion three out of a multitude.
In the following section we shall endeavor to see what prose style may be in view of all that has gone before.
II
STYLE, OR THE ARTISTIC ELEMENT IN PROSE
Before proceeding with a general considera- tion of prose style, let us pause to note an ob- jection that the reader may possibly raise at this point. Why, he will ask, should you give so much space to " style " in introducing the " Best English Essays " ? Is not the matter of far more importance in a literary composition than the manner f ^
1 De Quincey says of England: "In no country upon earth, were it possible to carry such an axiom into practical effect, is it
xxvi General Introduction
Yes, matter is always supreme over manner as far as greatness in literature is concerned; but it happens that in the essay especially, " the style is the man/' As De Quincey, quoting from Wordsworth, expresses it, style is not the dress of thought, but the incarnation. Though the soul of a beautiful woman is infinitely above her body, we creatures of sense would entirely lose the soul were we to take away the body. Hence we must study the body if we would discover the soul.
The mission of the prose essay is much like the mission of woman's beauty — it is to diffuse an atmosphere and give us pleasure in such varied and minute ways that we are at a loss to analyze or assign a reason. In short, an essay should be criticised as a work of art, not as a collection of moral or scientific truths ; and in so far as prose ceases to be a simple vehicle for facts and state- ments of truth, and comes to depend for its suc- cess on the feeling of pleasure it produces or the sense of beauty it conveys, it is said to possess " style."
We understand perfectly how painting as a fine art differs from house painting or sign painting, and how sculpture differs from stone-hewing. We also understand how poetry is a fine art akin both to music and to painting, and even how the magic of oratorical eloquence ranks spoken prose
a more determinate tendency of the national mind to value the 7natter of a book not only as paramount to the 7nanner^ but even as distinct from it and as capable of a distinct insulation."
General Introduction xxvii
at times with the other arts. But we find it very difficult to distinguish between prose the common drudge of everyday life, and that development of prose which makes it a fine art. For want of a better term, the word " style " has been coming into use to designate and characterize that prose which is an art. Both the words " prose " and *' style " are unfortunate in this connection, for the reason that both have other uses and mean- ings. We speak of that which is dull as '^ prosy," and in the common usage " style " refers espe- cially to fashions in dress, and next to that to the mere manner of doing a thing, as when we say, *' That 's his style." It is a serious misfortune that when we speak of " prose " we must think inevitably of that which is dull and commonplace, and when we speak of style that we must think of the " styles " that are put on and put off, or of idiosyncrasy of manner, of which no man has a right to boast.
In studying the essay from the point of view of style, we mean simply that we are studying it as a work of fine art, but with one limitation, and that is, that while art usually takes into view conception and structure as w^ell as execution or texture, style applies only to artistic texture. The truth is, the essay does not have artistic structure in the sense that the short story or the novel or the oration or the poem does, but only literary artistic texture, or style. (On this latter point we have only to recall the discursive and digres-
xxviii General Introduction
sive manner of all the great essayists, from Addison to De Ouincey.)
But even when we do catch the meaning of style as referring to artistic texture of language, we seem to misconceive it, as when we speak of wishing to acquire **a style," or to master "style," as if there were but one style. This error is en- forced apparently by one master of style, namely, Flaubert, of whom one of his critics says : " Pos- sessed of an absolute belief that there exists but one way to express one thing, one word to call it by, one adjective to qualify, one verb to animate it, he gave himself to superhuman labor for the discovery, in every phrase, of that word, that verb, that epithet. In this way, he believed in some mysterious harmony of expression, and when a true word seemed to him to lack euphony, still went on seeking another, with invincible patience, certain that he had not yet got hold of the unique word." ^
Only in a very narrow sense was Flaubert right. The truth is, there is an infinite number of ways of expressing any and every conception -— in short, as many different ways as there are persons to express it. Laboring under the false impression that there is but one style, or, at any rate, but one style for any given person, the stu- dent in search of style will select some one master whom he looks on as *' a master of style " — to- day it is most likely to be Pater or Flaubert or
1 Quoted by Pater in his essay on '* Style."
General Introduction xxix
Matthew Arnold — and will confine himself to expressing himself as his master does.
In this volume the editor offers ten masters of style, each an acknowledged artist in his way, each, as a rule, utterly different from every other. Many of these writers commanded more than one style ; but we see each only in that style in which he was supreme, the style which was especially characteristic of him. To the general reader these ten different types will be exceedingly useful as standards for comparison, and will make his criti- cism and judgment of any style in future more definite and assured; for not only ought we to enjoy works of art intuitively and instinctively, but critically. It is only by the introduction of the critical standard that we can hope to minimize merely personal preference and make possible the quick recognition of any worthy work of literary art that may come along in current literature.
For the student of literary style who wishes himself to write, these ten types will represent ten different ways in which any particular thought may possibly be expressed. Without question, Flaubert was right in saying that there is one way better than all others for expressing any given conception. Each class of ideas has its best lit- erary form, and if we read these ten groups of essays through, we shall see at once that each type is so successful, so truly masterful, because it is the one type best suited to the particular class of ideas with which the writer deals. If
XXX General Introduction
one is going to write only of one particular class of ideas, one will need only one type of style; but as no other writer will be precisely like Addison or Ruskin or Matthew Arnold, and may have ideas -that would have delighted Bacon or Carlyle or De Quincey, and may even have ideas representing all ten of our typical writers which he will wish to express in ten consecutive sen- tences, or even in ten consecutive phrases, or ten consecutive words, so he will need all ten styles to express those ten ideas in the only perfect way.
But suppose one fancies that one's ideas are most appropriately expressed in the style of De Quincey's impassioned prose or in Macaulay's rhetoric, and so confines his study to those two masters ; what will be the fatal result ? Why, he will elongate his mind in one direction until he becomes a monstrosity, and his style will be a mere literary curiosity. Nothing is more dan- gerous than the imitation of one writer, nothing more safe than the imitation of many.
We have spoken of those who wish to read with critical intelligence, and those who wish to write with artistic skill, as if they were separate and distinct classes. In a small degree they are; but for the most part they are one and the same. Every intelligent person ought to read literature with a well-developed critical taste: nearly every one will admit that ; but many will say that only the few who are to become professional writers will wish to spend any time in acquiring personal
General Introduction xxxi
and actual skill. This is an error, however ; every person who will have any desire to read with critical intelligence will have occasion to employ artistic expression in two common ways, namely, in conversation and in letter-writing. In our historical review we have noticed how several of the essay styles originated in conversation and in letter-writing. Conversely, the masterly essays that resulted from these sources will be the best models for successful conversation and successful letter-writing, and therefore should be studied imitatively as well as critically. Nay, more, the critical perception works most quickly and cer- tainly when the imitative faculty is called into activity. In other words, the quickest and surest way to master Lamb's style critically is to try to write like Lamb yourself, and to keep at your imitative efforts till you acquire some sort of skill.
In conclusion, I may say that there is nothing magical about the choice of ten types here pre- sented. Possibly ten other types equally good might have been found, at least if oratory and fiction could have been laid under contribution. In oratory and fiction, however, we come upon argumentative and dramatic structure, which is quite a different thing from style, and might conceivably interfere seriously with the study of it. The essay, like conversation and letters, has no structure. It is, as has previously been said, a pure representative of style as artistic literary
xxxii General Introduction
texture, and so for the ordinary student the essay furnishes the simplest and most natural models of style.
Nor is there anything magical in the historical system and analytic arrangement here offered merely for their practical utility to the student. Every great writer is a type in himself. His style is sui generis, and his roots run out in a thousand directions. But in studying an author, we shall gain most for ourselves by limiting our examina- tion to one point of view ; and our study of differ- ent types of style must have a sharp limit. The chief thing is that the types we select should be as different as possible. When we have gotten clearly no more than three different views of the possibilities of prose style, we are pretty well pre- pared to go on and differentiate thereafter for ourselves.
Ill
THE POSSIBILITIES OF PROSE
If I should say that I believe that in the next century prose will supersede verse in all forms of creative writing except songs that may be set to music, or purely lyrical poetry, some might con- sider me a wild prophet. More unprejudiced observers would probably agree with me. Not a few critics have intimated that Wordsworth would have done better to have chosen the prose
General Introduction xxxiii
form for most of his compositions. Though if Browning had written prose it would possibly have been what might be dubbed " Meredithian," probably few will not admit that George Meredith was wise in devoting himself as largely as he did to the prose form of composition. I have always thought that if Byron had written his descriptive poems in prose they would be more widely read to-day than they are. It is also interesting to note that Byron has been especially popular on the continent of Europe, where, presumably, his work is best known in prose translations similar to our prose translations of the poetry of the Bible. We have one prose writer, namely, Ruskin, who by the admission of all his critics has very distinctly the characteristics of a poet. Shelley or Keats was not more passionate and unrestrained in en- thusiasm than Ruskin. Yet Ruskin wrote prose. To be sure, Mr. W. C. Brownell tells us Ruskin is a sorry case, that his style lacks form and his matter lacks substance; that he was entirely out of his sphere in writing art criticisms; and that in the days when nothing but literary asbestos survives the fires of Time, there will be exceed- ingly little of Ruskin remaining. Mr. Brownell implies that Ruskin' s mistake was in not writing in verse, a literary form that might have saved him by imposing on him some restraint. He points out lack of restraint as the vital defect of all so-called " prose poetry." Prose, he says, ought to be sane, and he seems to think that it is
xxxiv General Introduction
quite impossible that it should be sane unless it restricts itself to scrupulous exactness of phrase. The salvation of poetry is in the restriction im- posed by its form when the author completely abandons himself to his emotion.
Now the case of Ruskin is interesting for the reason that in Ruskin' s early writings we find the extreme development of lyrical prose. If we ad- mit that Ruskin succeeded in his " prose poetry," it will be hard to point out anything which prose cannot do.
Some have hinted that Ruskin learned his method of using prose from Hooker. Though he may have got from Hooker the hint that started him in this direction, Ruskin learned his art from the Bible. His writings contain no more passionate prose poetry than we may read in " Ecclesiastes," for example. Old Testament prose poetry has been passed over because it was originally poetry pure and simple, and we may suppose that the translators would have given it the verse form in English had they been able. But could they have done any better than they did do? Evidently Ruskin thought they couldn't. He was brought up on the Bible. His biographer, Frederic Harrison, cites one short passage con- taining sixty allusions to the Bible. In studying Ruskin's prose we are inevitably driven back to his model, the Bible.
Now the interesting thing about the Bible is that its prose (if not its original poetry) was the
General Introduction xxxv
work of aged scholars, in whom the unrestrained and fierce ardors of the young Ruskin, when he wrote "Modern Painters" (twenty- four), were wholly lacking. They chose the words they did in much the same way that Flaubert chose his words, because they were eminently suitable, better than any other words they could find after exhaustive search, and words on which a body of men agreed. So far as my reading extends, no one has ever criticised the prose poetry of the Bible, not even Mr. Brownell.
We need not press this matter of the lyrical any farther. It is but a small matter even in poetry. We could sacrifice it entirely and still say that if " Paradise Lost," " The Excursion," " Childe Harold " or " Don Juan," or " The Ring and the Book " were to be written to-day, they v/ould probably be written in prose. Such is the change in public sentiment that has come about in fifty years! The public seems to have lost the art of reading verse, and if the great narrative poems of the past are to be saved, they must be translated into prose. Apparently the public has waked up to the fact that prose is just as capable of expressing high thoughts, and that it is infi- nitely easier to read. While Ruskin's contem- porary verse-poets are being read less and less every year, till we can fancy that at last only their short lyrics will survive, Ruskin, the prose poet, not only got himself extensively read in his own day, but continues to be read side by side with
xxxvi General Introduction
the popular novelists, in spite of the fact that he had all the faults of those verse-poet contempo- raries. The fact is, the public no longer reads verse poetry, and it is not easy to conceive that any poet could by any possibility arise who could repeat the great popular successes of Scott's, Byron's, or Moore's long poems.
Let us leave argument and turn to the practical side of the question.
We are confronted with the fact that everybody writes prose, and it is hard to see any sharp line of demarcation between the prose we find in news- papers, let us say, and that which we might find in a prose poem. Everybody writes prose, and if everybody were allowed to wander into the fields in which Mr. Ruskin has operated, we should probably find ourselves in Bedlam. Even to recommend the study and cultivation of this ex- treme sort of prose might seem opening the door to morbidity, to all that lack of sanity to which Mr. Brownell so justly objects. There is no question that Ruskin's imitators have made most wretched work of it. Nothing could be more nauseating than their so-called " prose poetry," whereas the minor poet is eminently harmless.
The fact is, while any one can write prose, the complete mastery of it is so difficult that it is wholly beyond the powers of any one man, unless he were to have the mental capacity of a Shake- speare. The range of language as an art is infi- nitely beyond that of any other art medium. It is
General Introduction xxxvii
the only art that can be said to be strictly universal. For example, painting as an art ranges from house painting to the painting of an " Angelus." Even house painting belongs to the art, for in the choice of colors, the laying on of the paint, etc., there is ample room for skill and taste. So in the art of using words, we range from common conversa- tion and letter-writing to the prose poetry of the Bible, The difference is, that whereas not one man in a thousand is even a house painter, only a small per cent of the entire population do not have occasion to engage in entertaining conver- sation or effective letter-writing. Even though the number of those that sing and play the piano is large, it is trifling beside the number of word- artists. And as the number of word-artists is relatively so vast at the bottom, at the top it is correspondingly small. No painter, no musician, stands pre-eminently alone in his art as Shake- speare does in his : and great as Shakespeare was, we can see how even he might have done better.
Now what shall be the criterion of success that can be stated universally for all the possible prac- titioners of the art of language? Why, simply this : he who conveys his meaning in zvords is successful. If our word-artist has but a single idea, and can express it in a single word, he may not be great, but he is successful. So far as he goes he is perfect. Shakespeare himself could do no better. The ideal of literary art, then, is
xxxviii General Introduction
simply, wholly, to convey meaning, and the more simply it can be done the better. If three thou- sand words will convey one's meaning, three thousand words completely mastered and effec- tively used will be sufficient for entire success. In this sense complete success as a literary artist is quite within the range of every one, and it would be hard to find an excuse for lack of such success.
But now we come to those who have, or think they have, something special to say, and to those ambitious aspirants who wish to make writing a passport to fame or money. Let us dispose of the latter first. There is undoubtedly a field for the professional writer in journalism and the com- pilation of books. But there is a potentially large class of persons who think : " Now I have n't any- thing in particular to say, and I see no special use that my writings will have after I produce them. But my friends Mary Jones and John Jenks have made fortunes out of books, and I can't see that they have any more ideas than I have. Why should n't I enter the lists and do as well as any of them? " It was this class which De Quincey had in mind when he wrote : '' Authors have always been a dangerous class for any lan- guage. Amongst the myriads who are prompted to authorship by the coarse love of reputation, or by the nobler craving for sympathy, there will always be thousands seeking distinction through novelties of diction. Hopeless of any audience
General Introduction xxxix
through any weight of matter, they will turn for their last resource to such tricks of innovation as they can bring to bear upon language. What care they for purity or simplicity of diction, if at any cost of either they can win special attention to themselves?" To argue with writers of this class or about them is useless. All we can do is to try to raise the popular standard and instruct the popular taste so that their false efforts will find no encouragement at all, and they will be forced by sheer starvation to turn to the more useful duties of housekeeping or road-making or boot-blacking — all eminently useful employ- ments, for which possibly they may be fitted.
Now let us consider for a moment that other class, which is no doubt relatively very large; the class of those who have ideas which they would express, which it is essential to their health and happiness that they should express, whether in conversation, letters, or the printed page — in short, the ^' mute inglorious Miltons " of Gray's Elegy. To these, expression is a sort of necessity, and we cannot but believe that all honest, sincere expression will also prove useful somewhere, to somebody beside the expresser. To these the inherited stock of common words and everyday methods of using them are insufficient. The ideas do not get through the words w^hich would convey them.
This is the point at which prose begins to be a fine art. The power of words as mechanical
xl General Introduction
symbols for ideas is exhausted. We must con- sider new ways of using these words. The most obvious first step is comparison, and we have figures of speech. We find the field we have en- tered a very large one, and proceed from simple direct comparison in the simile, through the metaphor or implied comparison, to antithetic comparison and contrast. We discover that words are suggestive, and proceed to make large use of what Mr. Barrett Wendell would call *' connotation."
But shortly we stumble upon a new difficulty. If we are going to use expression for anything more than self-relief, we must have an interested audience or a body of readers. The average man quickly tires of listening. We must work a charm upon him and hold him, or all our expression goes for naught, and proves practically to be no ex- pression at all. We are face to face with the problem of " economy of attention," so well dis- cussed by Herbert Spencer in his '' Essay on Style."
We may hold the attention of our hearer or reader in two ways, — one negatively, by not giv- ing him any more of one thing than his mind will absorb without weariness ; the other by the posi- tive charm of harmonious vibration, that univer- sal principle of life showing itself in the soothing effect of the monotonous breaking of waves on the seashore and also in the positive charm of music. If we are to make progress, we must see
General Introduction xli
to it that our language has variety, so as not to weary, and music, so as actually to charm.
Verse gets its musical quality in part by the beat of successive feet in the metre, and by the measured recurrence of rhymes, caesuras, etc. But prose substitutes a much freer wave form, namely, cadence. Ruskin was a master of ca- dence. Says Mr. Brownell, " The cadence of Gibbon, of De Quincey, even of Jeremy Taylor, is a simple affair beside Ruskin's, which, in com- parison, possesses an infinite variety of notes and chords." Cadence is wholly a matter of the ear. Without an ear for fine harmony it inevitably runs into disagreeable sing-song, or fails alto- gether. The prose writer uses it so long as it serves its purpose, and the moment he does not need it, he drops it. The unfortunate thing about verse is that the regular beat stays by a man whether he wants it or not, and if it does not come naturally on suggestion of his ear, he feels obliged to force it even when the result is totally destruc- tive of harmony. Ruskin in his use of cadence has precisely the same fault, for it becomes a man- nerism with him, and finally wearies the reader past all endurance. This excess we realize as a fault in Ruskin. It is equally an inherent fault in all verse forms.
And now we may consider the element of re- straint. Verse affords mechanical restraint in that it requires a prodigious effort to express a high and noble idea effectively in words which
xlii General Introduction
will serve the mechanical requirements of metre, rhyme, etc., to say nothing of poetic dignity and the iron laws of the custom of the ages. The writer has to weigh well every syllable, and the continued and repeated polishing that is forced upon him goes a long way to take the insanity out of his emotional expression. Prose has no such mechanical restraints, and hence some critics would have us believe that it is not so well suited to the sane expression of passionate ideas. In other words, their cry is, '^ Tie the maniacs down with straps ! "
The penalty that the prose writer suffers when he fails in his self-restraint is merely ineffective- ness. He is like a free man working freely in a free country, as compared with the poet, who is more or less confined and liable to a lashing from his master's whip if he goes wrong. Or to drop the figure, poetry offers the advantage of a me- chanical restraint, while prose must depend upon the writer's own restraint of his feelings by his free-will. Self-mastery is an indispensable pre- requisite to writing passionate prose. The case of the poet is precisely the opposite, and being a lunatic is no special bar to the writing of poetry.
It will not be difficult to discover that writing the highest forms of prose is exceedingly more difficult than writing poetry of a corresponding grade. Poor prose is far more quickly detected by the average man than poor poetry. Matthew Arnold has somewhere suggested that good
General Introduction xliii
poetry can be produced only by a more or less barbarous age.^ It is the natural exalted lan- guage of all rude peoples. As civilization ad- vances, its power seems to be refined av^ay. Some have suspected that the race deteriorates as it becomes more civilized, simply for the reason that it can no longer produce the poetry of its infancy. A better view is to believe that as a man in his civil relations advances from a condition of slavery to one of freedom and liberty, where his own moral sense becomes his real master, the controlling force of his life, so literature advances from the period when poetry flourishes above prose because the self-restraint and self-mastery of the writer cannot be depended upon and mechanical restraint is necessarily employed, to the nobler freedom of prose developed as a fine art and depending for its effect and usefulness upon the self-mastery and artistic masfery of the writer; in other words, upon his eminent sanity fitting him for the just exercise of the unlimited powers of prose.
1 It is also to be observed that poetry is most often written successfully by young men (Keats, Shelley, Byron), while prose is seldom written successfully till age and experience have ripened the mind {^vide Thackeray, Lamb, George Eliot, and many others).
BACON
A SELECTION
FROM THE
BEST ENGLISH ESSAYS
BACON : MASTER OF CONDENSATION
OF all English prose writers, Bacon is the most condensed. His successive sen- tences approach the condensation of the proverb and the aphorism. In the essay '' Of Studies " there are half a dozen sentences any one of which a modern writer might take as a text and expand into a good-sized volurne. More- over, it is very interesting to note how he attains this unusual condensation, namely, in the simplest ■ way that condensation can be attained. He does no more than state a simple truth in the most direct and simple language imaginable. A child may do that; but the difference between a child and Bacon is that Bacon's simple truth has such profound and far-reaching applications. When a man has spent a lifetime in investigation of a subject, so that it is as familiar to him as his A B C's, nothing could be easier or simpler for him than to put his finger on the central point, the heart of the whole subject. If he displays
4 Best English Essays
any peculiar literary skill, it is chiefly in refrain- ing from doing anything beside putting his finger on the point of interest in his subject. The pro- fundity of Bacon's knowledge, the accuracy and comprehensiveness of his thought, are the essen- tial things in his essays. Little as he suspected it when he wrote them, these essays afford us a key to the conclusions regarding life of one of the profoundest thinkers, one of the keenest observers, and one of the most learned men the world has ever produced.
As Bacon is our first essayist, the history of his essays is interesting. As a brilliant conversa- tionist he was in the habit of jotting down in his notebook any terse or suggestive saying he heard, or any particularly good sentence that occurred to him in the ordinary rounds of his life and studies. In 1597 he published a dozen groups of these notes. They formed only a few pages in a book that contained other matter. Nearly every sen- tence was marked with the sign of the paragraph, showing that Bacon presented them merely as a collection of epigrammatic sentences. By far the best of these ten original essays was the one called " Of Studies." The book as a whole, however, was popular, and in 161 2 a new edition was pub- lished, in which nearly all the original essays were enlarged and the disjointed notes were more closely welded together. Many essays were added. In 1625 the final edition, as we now have it, appeared, and the collections of notes had
Bacon 5
grown into something more nearly resembling the modern essay, while the numerous additions were written connectedly and at greater length.
That the student may observe this process of development for himself, we present first the original form of the essay " Of Studies '' very nearly as it appeared in 1597, and then the same essay as we find it in the edition of 1625. This is followed by two essays, " Of Truth " and " Of Friendship," which were first presented in the edition of 1625. The latter is the most elab- orate and connected, and it will be very interest- ing to compare this essay with Emerson's essay on " Friendship." Emerson was the same sort of writer that Bacon was, but he wrote in an age when people read too hurriedly and too exten- sively to permit the classic brevity of Bacon to have its just effect.
OF STUDIES (Version of 1597)^
STUDIES serve for pastimes, for ornaments and for abilities. Their chief use for pastime is in privatenes and retiring; for omamente is in dis- course, and for abilitie is in judgement. For expert men can execute, but learned men are fittest to judge or censure.
1 In this essay the original spelling is retained.
6 Best English Essays
IfTo spend too much time in them is slouth, to use them too much for ornament is affectation : to make judgement wholly by their rules, is the humour of a Scholler. IfThey perfect Nature, and are perfected by experience. IFCraftie men contemne ^ them, simple men admire them, wise men use them : For they teach not their owne use, but that ^ is a wisedome without them : and above them wonne by obser- vation. IFReade not to contradict, nor to believe, but to waigh and consider. ITSome bookes are to bee tasted, others to bee swallowed, and some few to bee chewed and digested: That is, some bookes are to be read only in partes ; others to be read, but cur- sorily, and some few to be read wholly and with diligence and attention. ^Reading maketh a full man, conference a readye man, and writing an exacte man. And therefore if a man write little, he had neede have a great memorie, if he conferre little, he had neede have a present wit, and if he reade little, hee had neede have much cunning, to seeme to know that he doth not. ^Histories make men wise. Poets wittie: the Mathematickes subtle, naturall Phylosophie deepe: Morall grave, Logicke and Rhetoricke able to contend.
(Version of 1625)^
STUDIES serve for delight, for ornament, and for ability. Their chief use for delight is in pri- vateness and retiring ; for ornament is in discourse ;
^ Misprinted in first edition " continue." 2 The meaning calls for "there."
8 In this and the following essays, the spelling has been modernized.
Bacon 7
and for ability is in the judgment and disposition of business. For expert men can execute, and per- haps judge of particulars, one by one; but the general counsels, and the plots and marshalling of affairs, come best from those that are learned. To spend too much time in studies is sloth, to use them too much for ornament is affectation, to make judgment only by their rules is the humour of a scholar. They perfect nature, and are perfected by experience. For natural abilities are like natu- ral plants, that need pruning by study ; and studies themselves do give forth directions too much at large, except they be bounded in by experience. Crafty men contemn studies, simple men admire them, and wise men use them; for they teach not their own use, but that ^ is a wisdom without them and above them, won by observation.
Read not to contradict and confute, nor to be- lieve and take for granted, nor to find talk and discourse, but to weigh and consider. Some books are to be tasted, others to be swallowed, and some few to be chewed and digested : that is, some books are to be read only in parts; others to be read, but not curiously; and some few to be read wholly, and with diligence and attention. Some books also may be read by deputy, and extracts made of them by others; but that would be only in the less important arguments and the meaner sort of books; else distilled books are like com- mon distilled waters, flashy ^ things. Reading maketh a full man, conference a ready man, and writing an exact man. And therefore if a man write little, he had need have a great memory; if
1 "There" — see preceding page. ^ insipid.
8 Best English Essays
he confer little, he had need have a present wit; and if he read little, he had need have much cun- ning to seem to know that he doth not.
Histories make men wise, poets witty, the math- ematics subtile, natural philosophy deep, moral grave, logic and rhetoric able to contend. " Abe- unt studia in mores." ^ Nay, there is no stond ^ or impediment in the wit but may be wrought out by fit studies, like as diseases of the body may have appropriate exercises. Bowling is good for the stone and . reins, shooting for the lungs and breast, gentle walking for the stomach, riding for the head, and the like. So if a man's wit be wan- dering, let him study the mathematics ; for in dem- onstrations, if his wit be called away never so little, he must begin again. If his wit be not apt to distinguish or find differences, let him study the schoolmen, for they are cymini sectores.^ If he be not apt to beat over matters, and to call up one thing to prove and illustrate another, let him study the lawyers' cases. So every defect of the mind may have a special receipt.
OF TRUTH
"TTT'HAT is truth?" said jesting Pilate; and
VV would not stay for an answer. Certain
there be that delight in giddiness; and count it a
1 Bacon elsewhere paraphrases this : " Studies have an influence and operation upon the manners of those that are conversant in them."
2 Stand. Explained by the next word. ^ Splitters of cumin-seeds.
Bacon 9
bondage to fix a belief ; affecting ^ free-will in thinking, as well as in acting. And though the sect of philosophers of that kind be gone, yet there re- main certain discoursing wits which are of the same veins, though there be not so much blood in them as was in those of the ancients. But it is not only the difficulty and labour which men take in finding out of truth; nor again, that when it is found it imposeth upon men's thoughts, that doth bring lies in favour: but a natural though corrupt love of the lie itself. One of the later school of the Grecians examineth the matter, and is at a stand to think what should be in it that men should love lies : where neither they make for pleasure, as with poets ; nor for advantage, as with the merchant ; but for the He's sake. But I cannot tell : this same truth is a naked and open daylight, that doth not show the masks, and mummeries, and triumphs of the world half so stately and daintily as candle- lights. Truth may perhaps come to the price of a pearl, that showeth best by day; but it will not rise to the price of a diamond or carbuncle, that showeth best in varied lights. A mixture of a lie doth ever add pleasure. Doth any man doubt, that if there were taken out of men's minds vain opinions, flattering hopes, false valuations, imag- inations as one would, and the like, but it would leave the minds of a number of men poor shrunken things, full of melancholy and indisposition, and unpleasing to themselves? One of the Fathers, in great severity, called poesy viniim dcemonum,^ be- cause it filleth the imagination, and yet it is but with the shadow of a lie. But it is not the lie that ^ Aiming at. ^ The wine of demons.
lo Best English Essays
passeth through the mind, but the lie that sinketh in, and settleth in it, that doth the hurt; such as we spake of before. But howsoever these things are thus in men's depraved judgments and affec- tions, yet truth, which only doth judge itself, teacheth that the inquiry of truth, which is the love-making or wooing of it; the knowledge of truth, which is the presence of it; and the belief of truth, which is the enjoying of it — is the sov- ereign good of human nature. The first creature of God, in the works of the days, was the light of the sense; the last was the light of reason; and his Sabbath work ever since is the illumina- tion of his Spirit. First he breathed light upon the face of the matter, or chaos; then he breathed light into the face of man; and still he breatheth and inspireth light into the face of his chosen. The poet that beautified the sect that was other- wise inferior to the rest, saith yet excellently well : " It is a pleasure to stand upon the shore, and to see ships tossed upon the sea; a pleasure to stand in the window of a castle, and to see a battle, and the adventures thereof below: but no pleasure is comparable to the standing upon the vantage ground of truth " (a hill not to be commanded, and where the air is always clear and serene) " and to see the errors, and wanderings, and mists, and tempests, in the vale below : " so always, that this prospect be with pity, and not with swelling or pride. Certainly, it is heaven upon earth to have a man's mind move in charity, rest in provi- dence, and turn upon the poles of truth.
To pass from theological and philosophical truth to the truth of civil business, it will be acknowl-
Bacon ii
edged, even by those that practise it not, that clear and round dealing is the honour of man's nature; and that mixture of falsehood is like alloy in coin of gold and silver: which may make the metal work the better, but it embaseth it. For these winding and crooked courses are the goings of the serpent, which goeth basely upon the belly, and not upon the feet. There is no vice that doth so cover a man with shame as to be found false and perfidious. And therefore Montaigne saith prettily, when he inquired the reason why the word of the lie should be such a disgrace, and such an odious charge: saith he, "If it be well weighed, to say that a man lieth is as much as to say that he is brave towards God and a coward towards men." For a lie faces God, and shrinks from man. Surely the wickedness of falsehood, and breach of faith, cannot possibly be so highly ex- pressed as in that it shall be the last peal to call the judgments of God upon the generations of men : it being foretold that when Christ cometh " He shall not find faith upon the earth."
OF FRIENDSHIP
IT had been hard for him that spake it to have put more truth and untruth together in few words than in that speech, " Whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god." For it is most true that a natural and secret hatred and aversation towards society in any man hath some- what of the savage beast; but it is most untrue that it should have any character at all of the divine
12 Best English Essays
nature, except it proceed, not out of a pleasure in solitude, but out of a love and desire to sequester a man's self for a higher conversation: such as is found to have been falsely and feignedly in some of the heathen, as Epimenides the Candian, Nyma the Roman, Empedocles the Sicilian, and ApoUo- nius of Tyana ; and truly and really in divers of the ancient hermits and holy fathers of the Church. But little do men perceive what solitude is, and how far it extendeth ; for a crowd is not company, and faces are but a gallery of pictures, and talk but a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love. The Latin adage meeteth with it a little, " Magna civitas, magna solitudo " ; ^ because in a great town friends are scattered, so that there is not that fel- lowship, for the most part, which is in less neigh- bourhoods. But we may go further, and affirm most truly that it is a mere ^ and miserable solitude to want true friends, without which the world is but a wilderness. And even in this sense also of solitude, whosoever in the frame of his nature and affections is unfit for friendship, he taketh it of the beast, and not from humanity.
A principal fruit of friendship is the ease and discharge of the fulness and swellings of the heart, which passions of all kinds do cause and induce. We know diseases of stoppings and suffocations are the most dangerous in the body, and it is not much otherwise in the mind ; you may take sarza ^ to open the liver, steel to open the spleen, flowers of sulphur for the lungs, castoreum for the brain, but no receipt openeth the heart but a true friend, to
1 A great town is a great solitude.
2 Utter. ' Sarsaparilla.
Bacon 13
whom you may impart griefs, joys, fears, hopes, suspicions, counsels, and whatsoever lieth upon the heart to oppress it, in a kind of civil shrift or confession.
It is a strange thing to observe how high a rate great kings and monarchs do set upon this fruit of friendship whereof we speak; so great as they pur- chase it many times at the hazard of their own safety and greatness. For princes, in regard of the distance of their fortune from that of their sub- jects and servants, cannot gather this fruit except, to make themselves capable thereof, they raise some persons to be, as it were, companions and almost equals to themselves, which many times sorteth to inconvenience. The modern languages give unto such persons the name of favourites or privadoes, as if it were matter of grace or conver- sation ; but the Roman name attaineth the true use and cause thereof, naming them " participes curarum," ^ for it is that which tieth the knot. And we see plainly that this hath been done, not by weak and passionate princes only, but by the wisest and most politic that ever reigned ; who have oftentimes joined to themselves some of their ser- vants, whom both themselves have called friends, and allowed others likewise to call them in the same manner, using the word which is received between private men.
L. Sylla, when he commanded Rome, raised Pompey, after surnamed the Great, to that height that Pompey vaunted himself for Sylla's over- match. For when he had carried the consulship for a friend of his against the pursuit of Sylla, and
1 Partners in cares.
14 Best English Essays
that Sylla did a little resent thereat, and began to speak great, Pompey turned upon him again, and in effect bade him be quiet, '' for that more men adored the sun rising than the sun setting." With Julius Caesar, Decimus Brutus had obtained that interest, as he set him down in his testament for heir in remainder after his nephew. And this was the man that had power with him to draw him forth to his death. For when Caesar would have discharged the senate, in regard of some ill pre- sages, and especially a dream of Calpurnia, this man lifted him gently by the arm out of his chair, tell- ing him he hoped he would not dismiss the senate till his wife had dreamt a better dream. And it seemeth his favour was so great as Antonius, in a letter which is recited verbatim in one of Cicero's Philippics, calleth him " venefica," witch, as if he had enchanted Caesar. Augustus raised Agrippa, though of mean birth, to that height as, when he consulted with Maecenas about the marriage of his daughter Julia, Maecenas took the liberty to tell him, " That he must either marry his daughter to Agrippa or take away his life; there was no third way, he had made him so great." With Tiberius Caesar, Sejanus had as- cended to that height as they two were termed and reckoned as a pair of friends. Tiberius in a letter to him saith : '' Haec pro amicitia nostra non oc- cultavi " ; ^ and the whole senate dedicated an altar to friendship, as to a goddess, in respect of the great dearness of friendship between them two. The like or more was between Septimius Severus
1 On account of our friendship I have not kept these things back.
Bacon
15
and Plautianus. For he forced his eldest son to marry the daughter of Plautianus, and would often maintain Plautianus in doing affronts to his son ; and did write also in a letter to the senate by these words : ** I love the man so well as I wish he may over-live me." Now, if these princes had been as a Trajan, or a Marcus Aurelius, a man might have thought that this had proceeded of an abundant goodness of nature; but being men so wise, of such strength and severity of mind, and so extreme lovers of themselves, as all these were, it proveth most plainly that they found their own felicity, though as great as ever happened to mortal men, but as a half-piece, except they mought have a friend to make it entire. And yet, which is more, they were princes which had wives, sons, nephews; and yet all these could not supply the comfort of friendship.
It is not to be forgotten what Commineus ob- serveth of his first master, Duke Charles the Hardy ; namely, that he would communicate his secrets with none, and least of all those secrets which troubled him most. Whereupon he goeth on, and saith that towards his latter time '' that close- ness did impair, and a little perish his under- standing." Surely Commineus mought have made the same judgment also, if it had pleased him, of his second master, Louis XL, whose closeness was indeed his tormentor. The parable of Pythag- oras is dark but true : " Cor ne edito," eat not the heart. Certainly, if a man would give it a hard phrase, those that want friends to open them- selves unto are cannibals of their own hearts. But one thing is most admirable (wherewith I
1 6 Best English Essays
will conclude this first-fruit of friendship), which is, that this communicating of a man's self to his friend works two contrary effects : for it redoubleth joys, and cutteth griefs in halves. For there is no man that imparteth his joys to his friend, but he joyeth the more; and no man that imparteth his griefs to his friend, but he grieveth the less. So that it is, in truth, of operation upon a man's mind, of like virtue as the alchemists used to attribute to their stone for man's body, that it worketh all contrary effects, but still to the good and benefit of nature. But yet, without praying in aid of alchemists, there is a manifest image of this in the ordinary course of nature. For in bodies, union strengtheneth and cherisheth any natural action, and, on the other side, weakeneth and dulleth any violent impression: and even so is it of minds.
The second fruit of friendship is healthful and sovereign for the understanding, as the first is for the affections. For friendship maketh indeed a fair day in the affections from storm and tempests ; but it maketh daylight in the understanding out of darkness and confusion of thoughts. Neither is this to be understood only of faithful counsel, which a man receiveth from his friend ; but before you come to that, certain it is, that whosoever hath his mind fraught with many thoughts, his wits and understanding do clarify and break up in the communicating and discoursing with another: he tosseth his thoughts more easily, he marshalleth them more orderly, he seeth how they look when they are turned into words; finally, he waxeth wiser than himself, and that more by an hour's
Bacon 17
discourse than by a day's meditation. It was well said by Themistocles to the King of Persia, " That speech was like cloth of Arras, opened and put abroad, whereby the imagery doth appear in figure; whereas in thoughts they lie but as in packs." Neither is this second fruit of friend- ship, in opening the understanding, restrained only to such friends as are able to give a man counsel ; they indeed are best, but even without that, a man learneth of himself, and bringeth his own thoughts to light, and whetteth his wits as against a stone, which itself cuts not. In a word, a man were better relate himself to a statua or picture, than to suffer his thoughts to pass in smother.
Add now, to make this second fruit of friend- ship complete, that other point which lieth more open, and falleth within vulgar observation : which is faithful counsel from a friend. Heraclitus saith well in one of his enigmas, " Dry light is ever the best." And certain it is, that the light that a man receiveth by counsel from another is drier and purer than that which cometh from his own understanding and judgment, which is ever infused and drenched in his affections and customs. So as there is as much difference between the counsel that a friend giveth, and that a man giveth himself, as there is between the counsel of a friend and of a flatterer. For there is no such flatterer as is a man's self; and there is no such remedy against flattery of a man's self as the liberty of a friend. Counsel is of two sorts: the one concerning man- ners, the other concerning business. For the first, the best preservative to keep the mind in
1 8 Best Englisli Essays
health Is the faithful admonition of a friend. The calling of a man's self to a strict account is a medicine sometime too piercing and corrosive. Reading good books of morality is a little flat and dead. Observing our faults in others is sometimes unproper for our case. But the best receipt (best, I say, to work, and best to take) is the admonition of a friend. It is a strange thing to behold what gross errors and extreme absurdities many, espe- cially of the greater sort, do commit for want of a friend to tell them of them ; to the great damage both of their fame and fortune. For, as St. James saith, they are as men " that look sometimes into a glass, and presently forget their own shape and favour." As for business, a man may think if he will that two eyes see no more than one; or that a gamester seeth always more than a looker-on; or that a man in anger is as wise as he that hath said over the four-and- twenty letters; or that a musket may be shot off as well upon the arm as upon a rest; and such other fond and high imag- inations, to think himself all in all. But when all is done, the help of good counsel is that which setteth business straight. And if any man think that he will take counsel, but it shall be by pieces ; asking counsel in one business of one man, and in another business of another man; it is well (that is to say, better perhaps than if he asked none at all ) ; but he runneth two dangers : one, that he shall not be faithfully counselled ; — for it is a rare thing, except it be from a perfect and entire friend, to have counsel given, but such as shall be bowed and crooked to some ends which he hath that giveth it ; — the other, that he shall have counsel
Bacon 19
given, hurtful and unsafe, though with good mean- ing, and mixed partly of mischief and partly of remedy; even as if you would call a physician that is thought good for the cure of the disease you complain of, but is unacquainted with your body, and therefore may put you in way for a present cure, but overthroweth your health in some other kind, and so cure the disease and kill the patient. But a friend that is wholly acquainted with a man's estate will beware by furthering any present business how he dasheth upon other in- convenience. And, therefore, rest not upon scat- tered counsels ; they will rather distract and mislead than settle and direct.
After these two noble fruits of friendship (peace in the affections, and support of the judgment) foUoweth the last fruit, which is like the pomegran- ate, full of many kernels : I mean aid, and bearing a part in all actions and occasions. Here, the best way to represent to life the manifold use of friendship, is to cast and see how many things there are which a man cannot do himself; and then it will appear that it was a sparing speech of the ancients to say, " That a friend is another himself " ; for that a friend is far more than him- self. Men have their time, and die many times in desire of some things which they principally take to heart, — the bestowing of a child, the finishing of a work, or the like. If a man have a true friend, he may rest almost secure that the care of those things will continue after him. So that a man hath, as it were, two lives in his desires. A man hath a body, and that body is confined to a place; but where friendship is, all offices of life are, as it were,
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granted to him and his deputy, for he may exercise them by his friend. How many things are there which a man cannot, with any face or comeHness, say or do himself! A man can scarce allege his own merits with modesty, much less extol them ; a man cannot sometimes brook to supplicate or beg; and a number of the like. But all these things are graceful in a friend's mouth, which are blushing in a man's own. So again, a man's per- son hath many proper^ relations which he cannot put off. A man cannot speak to his son but as a father ; to his wife but as a husband ; to his enemy but upon terms ; whereas a friend may speak as the case requires, and not as it sorteth with the person. But to enumerate these things were end- less. I have given the rule where a man cannot fitly play his own part : if he have not a friend, he may quit the stage.
1 Personal, peculiar.
II
SWIFT
SWIFT: THE GREATEST ENGLISH SATIRIST
IN his lecture on Swift, Thackeray gives us a masterly picture of the famous Dean of St. Patrick's, but tells us he was a very bad man. Certainly there is nothing very agreeable about Swift, and though we have already de- scribed him as in a way the typical preacher of his day, he is not such a man as we should like to have occupy the pulpit of the church we go to. For all that, we are forced to admit that in his writings it is the element of truth that has preserved them. " Gulliver's Travels " is read to-day, and will continue to be read by the average man long after every one of Swift's contemporaries has been relegated to the literary attic. Possibly he will be read as a mere story teller, by children who suspect him of ferocity as little as they suspect the pussy-cat in the corner. Still, it is very remarkable that the most pungent satire in the language and one of the most simple and fascinating stories can exist together in the same literary composition. The
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only way to account for it is to suppose that Swift told the simple truth without in any way disfig- uring it by his moroseness of temper.
In his literary style. Swift belongs to the same classic school as Bacon. Like Bacon, he states simple truths in the plainest and simplest manner ; but while Bacon selected profound truths. Swift, actuated by the mad bitterness of his temper, was always putting his finger with unerring accuracy on the weak points of human nature. He tells his simple story in his smooth and simple way, with no ornament, no exaggeration. No reader can question, much less deny, a single syllable; but when he looks up and catches the old fellow's malicious eye, his very flesh creeps under the stinging satire of the truth that the Dean states so suavely and so accurately. The Dean is bitter and malicious as no other man ever was; but he is strictly truthful; and since he is truthful we cannot believe that he has ever done human nature any harm.
To be sure. Swift might have applied the puri- fying caustic with heartfelt love instead of ma- licious glee. The " Modest Proposal " for eating children is so repulsive, so sickeningly ferocious, that we prefer to pass it by even though it is one of the most remarkable pieces of literature of its kind. Compare with it the same kind of satire on the same subject, inspired by the same bitter- ness of heart, that we find in the following para- graph from Ruskin's "Fors Clavigera," a propos
Swift 25
of the English gentleman's delight in killing things for sport: —
" Of course, all this is natural to a sporting people who have learned to like the smell of gun- powder, sulphur, and gas tar better than that of violets and thyme. But, putting baby-poisoning, pigeon-shooting, and rabbit-shooting to-day in com- parison with the pleasures of the German Madonna and her simple company, and of Chaucer and his carolling company : and seeing that the present ef- fect of peace upon earth, and well-pleasing in men, is that every nation now spends most of its income in machinery for shooting the best and the bravest men just when they were likely to have become of some use to their fathers and mothers, I put it to you, my friends all, — calling you so, I suppose for the last time, unless you are disposed for friendship with Herod instead of Barabbas, — whether it would not be more kind and less expensive to make the machinery a little smaller, and adapt it to spare opium now, and expenses of maintenance and edu- cation afterwards (beside no end of diplomacy), by taking our sport in shooting babies instead of rabbits?"
There is no doubt, however, that Swift's pitch- fork has pricked more skins than Ruskin's subtle needle-point. /
Swift's best satirical essay is undoubtedly his first, " A Tale of a Tub." In its digression and variety of topics it is a typical essay, and its amusing little tale has a very deep political sig- nificance; for Peter [St. Peter] is merely Swift's
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name for the Roman CathoHc Church, Martin [Luther] for the Episcopal or EngHsh Church, and Jack [Calvin] for the Presbyterian or Non- conformist Church. The satire on booksellers in the *' Bookseller's Dedication " and the satire on current authors in the dedication to " Prince Posterity " have nearly as much point to-day as when they were written. Altogether these three or four selections, complete in themselves, give also a very good impression of " A Tale of a Tub " as a whole.
A TALE OF A TUB The Bookseller's Dedication
TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE JOHN LORD SOMERS
My Lord,
THO' the author has written a large Dedication, yet that being addressed to a prince, whom I am never likely to have the honour of being known to ; a person besides, as far as I can observe, not at all regarded, or thought on by any of our present writers; and being wholly free from that slavery which booksellers usually lie under, to the caprices of authors ; I think it a wise piece of presumption to inscribe these papers to your Lordship, and to implore your Lordship's protection of them. God and your Lordship know their faults and their
Swift 27
merits; for, as to my own particular, I am alto- gether a stranger to the matter ; and though every- body else should be equally ignorant, I do not fear the sale of the book, at all the worse, upon that score. Your Lordship's name on the front in capital letters will at any time get off one edition : neither would I desire any other help to grow an alderman, than a patent for the sole privilege of dedicating to your Lordship.
I should now, in right of a dedicator, give your Lordship a list of your own virtues, and, at the same time, be very unwilling to offend your modesty ; but chiefly, I should celebrate your liberality towards men of great parts and small fortunes, and give you broad hints that I mean myself. And I was just going on, in the usual method, to peruse a hundred or two of dedications, and transcribe an abstract to be applied to your Lordship ; but I was diverted by a certain accident. For, upon the covers of these papers, I casually observed written in large letters the two following words, DETUR DIGNISSIMO ; which, for aught I knew, might contain some im- portant meaning. But it unluckily fell out, that none of the authors I employ understood Latin; (though I have them often in pay to translate out of that language;) I was therefore compelled to have recourse to the curate of our parish, who englished it thus. Let it be given to the worthiest: and his comment was, that the author meant his work should be dedicated to the sublimest genius of the age for wit, learning, judgment, eloquence, and wisdom. I called at a poet's chamber (who works for my shop) in an alley hard by, showed him the transla- tion, and desired his opinion, who it was that the
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author could mean: he told me, after some con- sideration, that vanity was a thing he abhorred ; but, by the description, he thought himself to be the per- son aimed at ; and, at the same time, he very kindly offered his own assistance gratis towards penning a dedication to himself. I desired him, however, to give a second guess. Why, then, said he, it must be I, or my Lord Somers. From thence I went to several other wits of my acquaintance, with no small hazard and weariness to my person, from a prodi- gious number of dark, winding stairs ; but found them all in the same story, both of your Lordship and themselves. Now, your Lordship is to under- stand, that this proceeding was not of my own in- vention ; for I have somewhere heard it is a maxim, that those to whom everybody allows the second place, have an undoubted title to the first.
This infallibly convinced me, that your Lord- ship was the person intended by the author. But, being very unacquainted in the style and form of dedications, I employed those wits aforesaid to furnish me with hints and materials, towards a panegyric upon your Lordship's virtues.
In two days they brought me ten sheets of paper, filled up on every side. They swore to me, that they had ransacked whatever could be found in the char- acters of Socrates, Aristides, Epaminondas, Cato, Tully, Atticus, and other hard names, which I can- not now recollect. However, I have reason to be- Heve, they imposed upon my ignorance; because, when I came to read over their collections, there was not a syllable there, but what I and everybody else knew as well as themselves : Therefore I griev- ously suspect a cheat; and that these authors of
Swift 29
mine stole and transcribed every word, from the universal report of mankind. So that I look upon myself as fifty shillings out of pocket, to no manner of purpose.
If, by altering the title, I could make the same materials serve for another Dedication, (as my bet- ters have done, ) it would help to make up my loss ; but I have made several persons dip here and there in those papers, and before they read three lines, they have all assured me plainly, that they can- not possibly be applied to any person besides your Lordship.
I expected, indeed, to have heard of your Lord- ship's bravery at the head of an army; of your undaunted courage in mounting a breach, or scaling a wall; or, to have had your pedigree traced in a lineal descent from the house of Austria; or, of your wonderful talent at dress and dancing; or, your profound knowledge in algebra, metaphysics, and the oriental tongues. But to ply the world with an old beaten story of your wit, and eloquence, and learning, and wisdom, and justice, and politeness, and candor, and evenness of temper in all scenes of life; of that great discernment in discovering, and readiness in favouring deserving men; with forty other common topics ; I confer, I have neither con- science nor countenance to do it. Because there is no virtue, either of a public or private life, which some circumstances of your own have not often pro- duced upon the stage of the world ; and those few, which, for want of occasions to exert them, might otherwise have passed unseen, or unobserved, by your friends, your enemies have at length brought to light.
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'T is true, I should be very loth, the bright ex- ample of your Lordship's virtues should be lost to after-ages, both for their sake and your own; but chiefly because they will be so very necessary to adorn the history of a late reign; ^ and that is an- other reason why I would forbear to make a recital of them here ; because I have been told by wise men, that, as Dedications have run for some years past, a good historian will not be apt to have recourse thither in search of characters.
There is one point, wherein I think we dedicators would do well to change our measures; I mean, instead of running on so far upon the praise of our patrons' liberality, to spend a word or two in admir- ing their patience, I can put no greater compliment on your Lordship's, than by giving you so ample an occasion to exercise it at present. — Though per- haps I shall not be apt to reckon much merit to your Lordship upon that score, who having been for- merly used to tedious harangues, and sometimes to as little purpose, will be the readier to pardon this ; especially, when it is offered by one, who is with all respect and veneration, My Lord,
Your Lordship's most obedient,
And most faithful servant.
The Bookseller.^
1 King William's.
2 The bookseller in whose person Swift writes this dedication was John Nutt.
Swift 3 1
The Epistle Dedicatory
TO
HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS PRINCE POSTERITY^ Sir,
I HERE present Your Highness with the fruits of a very few leisure hours, stolen from the short intervals of a world of business and of an em- ployment quite alien from such amusements as this ; the poor production of that refuse of time, which has lain heavy upon my hands, during a long pro- rogation of parliament, a great dearth of foreign news, and a tedious fit of rainy weather ; for which, and other reasons, it cannot choose extremely to deserve such a patronage as that of Your Highness, whose numberless virtues, in so few years, make the world look upon you as the future example to all princes ; for although Your Highness is hardly got clear of infancy, yet has the universal learned world already resolved upon appealing to your future dic- tates, with the lowest and most resigned submission ; fate having decreed you sole arbiter of the produc- tions of human wit, in this polite and most accom- plished age. Methinks, the number of appellants were enough to shock and startle any judge, of a genius less unlimited than yours: but, in order to prevent such glorious trials, the person (it seems) to whose care the education of Your Highness is
^ It is the usual style of decried writers to appeal to Posterity, who is here represented as a prince in his nonage, and Time as his governor; and the author begins in a way very frequent with him, by personating other writers, who sometimes offer such reasons and excuses for publishing their works, as they ought chiefly to conceal and be ashamed of.
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committed/ has resolved (as I am told) to keep you in almost a universal ignorance of our studies, which it is your inherent birth-right to inspect.
It is amazing to me, that this person should have assurance, in the face of the sun, to go about per- suading Your Highness, that our age is almost wholly illiterate, and has hardly produced one writer upon any subject. I know very well, that when Your Highness shall come to riper years, and have gone through the learning of antiquity, you will be too curious, to neglect inquiring into the authors of the very age before you : and to think that this inso- lent, in the account he is preparing for your view, designs to reduce them to a number so insignificant as I am ashamed to mention ; it moves my zeal and my spleen for the honour and interest of our vast flourishing body, as well as of myself, for whom, I know by long experience, he has professed, and still continues, a peculiar malice.
'T is not unlikely, that, when Your Highness will one day peruse what I am now writing, you may be ready to expostulate with your governor, upon the credit of what I here affirm, and command him to show you some of our productions. To which he will answer, (for I am well informed of his designs,) by asking Your Highness, where they are? and what is become of them? and pretend it a demon- stration that there never were any, because they are not then to be found. Not to be found ! Who has mislaid them ? Are they sunk in the abyss of things ? 'T is certain, that in their own nature, they were light enough to swim upon the surface for all eter- nity. Therefore the fault is in him, who tied weights
1 Time, allegorically described as the tutor of Posterity.
Swift ^2
so heavy to their heels, as to depress them to the centre. Is their very essence destroyed? Who has annihilated them? But, that it may no longer be a doubt with Your Highness, who is to be the author of this universal ruin, I beseech you to observe that large and terrible scythe which your governor af- fects to bear continually about him. Be pleased to remark the length and strength, the sharpness and hardness, of his nails and teeth : consider his bane- ful, abominable breath, enemy to life and matter, infectious and corrupting : and then reflect, whether it be possible, for any mortal ink and paper of this generation, to make a suitable resistance. O ! that Your Highness would one day resolve to disarm this usurping maitre du palais ^ of his furious en- gines, and bring your empire hors de page.^
It were endless to recount the several methods of tyranny and destruction, which your governor is pleased to practise upon this occasion. His inveter- ate malice is such to the writings of our age, that of several thousands produced yearly from this re- nowned city, before the next revolution of the sun, there is not one to be heard of: Unhappy infants! many of them barbarously destroyed, before they have so much as learnt their mother tongue to beg for pity. Some he stifles in their cradles ; others he frights into convulsions, whereof they suddenly die ; some he flays alive ; others he tears limb from limb. Great numbers are offered to Moloch; and
1 Comptroller. The kingdom of France had a race of kings, which they call les roisfaineaiis (from their doing nothing), who lived lazily in their apartments, while the kingdom was administered by the " mayor of the palace," till Charles Martel, the last mayor, put his master to death, and took the kingdom into his own hand.
2 Out of guardianship.
3
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the rest, tainted by his breath, die of a languishing consumption.
But the concern I have most at heart, is for our corporation of poets ; from whom I am preparing a petition to Your Highness, to be subscribed with the names of one hundred and thirty-six of the first rate; but whose immortal productions are never likely to reach your eyes, though each of them is now an humble and earnest appellant for the laurel, and has large comely volumes ready to show, for a support to his pretensions. The never-dying works of these illustrious persons, your governor, sir, has devoted to unavoidable death; and Your Highness is to be made believe, that our age has never arrived at the honour to produce one single poet.
We confess Immortality to be a great and power- ful goddess; but in vain we offer up to her our devotions and our sacrifices, if Your Highness's governor, who has usurped the priesthood, must, by an unparalleled ambition and avarice, wholly inter- cept and devour them.
To afiirm that our age is altogether unlearned, and devoid of writers in any kind, seems to be an assertion so bold and so false, that I have been some time thinking, the contrary may almost be proved by uncontrollable demonstration. 'T is true, indeed, that although their numbers be vast, and their pro- ductions numerous in proportion, yet are they hur- ried so hastily off the scene, that they escape our memory, and elude our sight. When I first thought of this address, I had prepared a copious Hst of titles to present Your Highness, as an undisputed argument for what I affirm. The originals were posted fresh upon all gates and corners of streets;
Swift ^^
but, returning in a very few hours to take a review, they were all torn down, and fresh ones in their places. I inquired after them among readers and booksellers ; but I inquired in vain ; the memorial of them was lost among men; their place was no more to be found; and I was laughed to scorn for a clown and a pedant, without all taste and refine- ment, little versed in the course of present affairs, and that knew nothing of what had passed in the best companies of court and town. So that I can only avow in general to Your Highness, that we do abound in learning and wit; but to fix upon par- ticulars, is a task too slippery for my slender abil- ities. If I should venture in a windy day to affirm to Your Highness, that there is a large cloud near the horizon, in the form of a bear; another in the zenith, with the head of an ass ; a third to the west- ward, with claws like a dragon ; and Your High- ness should in a few minutes think fit to examine the truth, it is certain they would all be changed in figure and position : new ones would arise, and all we could agree upon would be, that clouds there were, but that I was grossly mistaken in the zoog- raphy and topography of them.
But your governor perhaps may still insist, and put the question, — What is then become of those immense bales of paper, which must needs have been employed in such numbers of books? Can these also be wholly annihilate, and so of a sud- den, as I pretend? What shall I say in return of so invidious an objection? Books, like men their authors, have no more than one way of coming into the world, but there are ten thousand to go out of it, and return no more.
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I profess to Your Highness, in the integrity of my heart, that what I am going to say is Uterally true this minute I am writing: what revolutions may happen before it shall be ready for your pe- rusal, I can by no means warrant: however, I beg you to accept it as a specimen of our learning, our politeness, and our wit. I do therefore affirm, upon the word of a sincere man, that there is now actually in being a certain poet, called John Dryden, whose translation of Virgil was lately printed in a large folio, well bound, and, if diligent search were made, for aught I know, is yet to be seen. There is an- other, called Nahum Tate, who is ready to make oath, that he has caused many reams of verse to be published, whereof both himself and his bookseller, (if lawfully required,) can still produce authentic copies, and therefore wonders why the world is pleased to make such a secret of it. There is a third, known by the name of Tom Durfey, a poet of a vast comprehension, an universal genius, and most pro- found learning.. There are also one Mr. Rymer, and one Mr. Dennis, most profound critics. There is a person styled Dr. B — tl-y, who has written near a thousand pages of immense erudition, giving a full and true account of a certain squabble, of won- derful importance, between himself and a book- seller: He is a writer of infinite wit and humour; no man rallies with a better grace, and in more sprightly turns. Farther, I avow to Your Highness, that with these eyes I have beheld the person of William W-tt-n, B.D., who has written a good sizeable volume against a friend of your governor,^
1 Sir William Temple, whose praise of Phalaris's Epistles brought on him Bentley's criticisms, which appeared in the
Swift 37
( from whom, alas ! he must therefore look for little favour,) in a most gentlemanly style, adorned with the utmost politeness and civility ; replete with dis- coveries equally valuable for their novelty and use; and embellished with traits of wit, so poignant and so apposite, that he is a worthy yokemate to his fore-mentioned friend.
Why should I go upon farther particulars, which might fill a volume with the just eulogies of my contemporary brethren ? I shall bequeath this piece of justice to a larger work, wherein I intend to write a character of the present set of wits in our nation: their persons I shall describe particularly and at length, their genius and understandings in miniature.
In the meantime, I do here make bold to present Your Highness with a faithful abstract, drawn from the universal body of all arts and sciences, intended wholly for your service and construction. Nor do I doubt in the least, but Your Highness will peruse it as carefully, and make as considerable improve- ments, as other young princes have already done, by the many volumes of late years written for a help to their studies.^
That Your Highness may advance in wisdom and virtue, as well as years, and at last outshine all your royal ancestors, shall be the daily prayer of, Sir,
Your Highnesses,
Most devoted, 6^c.
Decemb. 1697.
second edition of Wotton's " Reflections on Ancient and Modern Learning,"
1 There were innumerable books printed for the use of the Dauphin of France.
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Preface
THE wits of the present age being so very numerous and penetrating, it seems the grandees of the Church and State begin to fall under horrible apprehensions lest these gentlemen, during intervals of a long peace, should find leisure to pick holes in the weak sides of Religion and Gov- ernment. To prevent which, there has been much thought employed of late upon certain projects for taking off the force and edge of those formidable inquirers from canvassing and reasoning upon such delicate points. They have at length fixed upon one, which will require some time as well as cost to per- fect. Meanwhile, the danger hourly increasing, by new levies of wits, all appointed (as there is reason to fear) with pen, ink, and paper, which may, at an hour's warning, be drawn out into pamphlets and other offensive weapons ready for immediate exe- cution ; it was judged of absolute necessity that some present expedient be thought on, till the main design can be brought to maturity. To this end at a grand committee some days ago, this important discovery was made by a certain curious and refined observer: that seamen have a custom, when they meet a whale, to fling him out an empty tub, by way of amusement, to divert him from laying violent hands upon the ship. This parable was immediately mythologized ; the whale was interpreted to be Hobbes's " Leviathan," which tosses and plays with all schemes of religion and government, whereof a great many are hollow and dry, and empty, and
Swift 39
noisy, and wooden, and given to rotation. This is the Leviathan from whence the terrible wits of our age are said to borrow their weapons. The ship in danger is easily understood to be its old antitype the commonwealth. But how to analyze the tub was a matter of difficulty; when, after long inquiry and debate, the literal meaning was preserved, and it was decreed that, in order to prevent these Levia- thans from tossing and sporting with the common- wealth (which of itself is too apt to fluctuate), they should be diverted from that game by a Tale of a Tub. And my genius being conceived to lie not unhappily that way, I had the honour done me to be engaged in the performance.
The Three Brothers and their Coats [Sect. II.]
ONCE upon a time, there was a man who had three sons by one wife, and all at a birth, neither could the midwife tell certainly, which was the eldest. Their father died while they were young; and upon his deathbed, calling the lads to him, spoke thus :
'' Sons ; because I have purchased no estate, nor was born to any, I have long considered of some good legacies to bequeath you; and at last, with much care, as well as expense, have provided each of you (here they are) a new coat. Now, you are to understand, that these coats have two virtues con- tained in them ; one is, that with good wearing, they will last you fresh and sound as long as you live : the
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other is, that they will grow in the same proportion with your bodies, lengthening and widening of them- selves, so as to be always fit. Here; let me see them on you before I die. So; very well; pray, children, wear them clean, and brush them often. You will find in my wilF (here it is) full instructions in -every particular concerning the wearing and management of your coats ; wherein you must be very exact, to avoid the penalties I have appointed for every transgression or neglect, upon which your future fortunes will entirely depend. I have also commanded in my will, that you should live to- gether in one house like brethren and friends, for then you will be sure to thrive, and not otherwise."
Here the story says, this good father died, and the three sons went all together to seek their fortunes.
I shall not trouble you with recounting what ad- ventures they met for the first seven years ; ^ any farther than by taking notice, that they carefully observed their father's will, and kept their coats in very good order: that they travelled through sev- eral countries, encountered a reasonable quantity of giants, and slew certain dragons.
Being now arrived at the proper age for produc- ing themselves, they came up to town, and fell in love with the ladies, but especially three, who about that time were in chief reputation; the Duchess d'Argent, Madame de Grands Titres, and the Countess d'Orgueil.^ On their first appearance, our three adventurers met with a very bad recep- tion ; and soon with great sagacity guessing out the reason, they quickly began to improve in the good
1 The New Testament. 2 The first seven centuries.
8 Covetousness, ambition, and pride.
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qualities of the town : they writ, and raUied, and rhymed, and sung, and said, and said nothing : they drank, and fought, and slept, and swore, and took snuff: they went to new plays on the first night, haunted the chocolate houses, beat the watch : they bilked hackney-coachmen, ran in debt with shop- keepers: they killed bailiffs, kicked fiddlers down stairs, eat at Locket's,^ loitered at Will's:^ they talked of the drawing-room, and never came there : dined with lords they never saw: whispered a duchess, and spoke never a word : exposed the scrawls of their laundress for billetdoux of quality : came ever just from court, and were never seen in it: attended the Levee sub dio: got a list of peers by heart in one company, and with great familiarity retailed them in another. Above all, they con- stantly attended those Committees of Senators, who are silent in the House, and loud in the coffee-house ; where they nightly adjourn to chew the cud of poli- tics, and are encompassed with a ring of disciples, who lie in wait to catch up their droppings. The three brothers had acquired forty other qualifica- tions of the like stamp, too tedious to recount, and by consequence, were justly reckoned the most ac- complished persons in the town : but all would not suffice, and the ladies aforesaid continued still in- flexible. To clear up which difficulty I must, with the reader's good leave and patience, have recourse to some points of weight, which the authors of that age have not sufficiently illustrated.
For, about this time it happened a sect arose,
1 A noted tavern.
2 Will's coffee-house, the great emporium of libels and scan- dals : it acquired the sobriquet of " The Wits' Coffee-House."
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whose tenets obtained and spread very far, especially in the grand monde, and among everybody of good fashion. They worshipped a sort of idol/ who, as their doctrine delivered, did daily create men by a kind of manufactory operation. This idol they placed in the highest parts of the house, on an altar erected about three foot : he was shown in the pos- ture of a Persian emperor, sitting on a superficies, with his legs interwoven under him. This god had a goose for his ensign: whence it is that some learned men pretend to deduce his original from Jupiter Capitolinus. At his left hand, beneath the altar. Hell seemed to open, and catch at the animals the idol was creating; to prevent which, certain of his priests hourly flung in pieces of the uninformed mass, or substance, and sometimes whole limbs al- ready enlivened, which that horrid gulf insatiably swallowed, terrible to behold. The goose was also held a subaltern divinity or deus minorum gentium, before whose shrine was sacrificed that creature, whose hourly food is human gore, and who is in so great renown abroad, for being the delight and favourite of the Egyptian Cercopithecus.^ Millions of these animals were cruelly slaughtered every day, to appease the hunger of that consuming deity. The chief idol was also worshipped as the inventor of the yard and needle; whether as the god of seamen, or on account of certain other mystical attributes, has not been sufficiently cleared.
The worshippers of this deity had also a system of their belief, which seemed to turn upon the fol-
1 By this idol is meant a tailor.
^ The ^Egyptians worshipped a monkey, which animal is very fond of eating lice, styled here creatures that feed on human gore.
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lowing fundamentals. They held the universe to be a large suit of clothes, which invests everything: that the earth is invested by the air; the air is in- vested by the stars ; and the stars are invested by the primum mobile. Look on this globe of earth, you will find it to be a very complete and fashion- able dress. What is that which some call land, but a fine coat faced with green? or the sea, but a waistcoat of water-tabby? Proceed to the particu- lar works of the creation, you will find how curi- ous journeyman Nature has been, to trim up the vegetable beaux; observe how sparkish a periwig adorns the head of a beech, and what a fine doublet of white satin is worn by the birch. To conclude from all, what is man himself but a micro-coat,^ or rather a complete suit of clothes with all its trim- mings? As to his body, there can be no dispute: but examine even the acquirements of his mind, you will find them all contribute in their order towards furnishing out an exact dress : to instance no more ; is not religion a cloak ; honesty a pair of shoes worn out in the dirt ; self-love a surtout ; vanity a shirt; and conscience a pair of breeches?
These postulata being admitted, it will follow in due course of reasoning, that those beings, which the world calls improperly suits of clothes, are in reality the most refined species of animals ; or, to proceed higher, that they are rational creatures, or men. For, is it not manifest, that they live, and move, and talk, and perform all other offices of human life? Are not beauty, and wit, and mien, and breeding, their inseparable proprieties? In
1 Alluding to the word microcosm, or a little world, as man has been called by philosophers.
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short, we see nothing but them, hear nothing but them. Is it not they who walk the streets, fill up parliament-, coffee-, play-houses ? 'T is true, in- deed, that these animals, which are vulgarly called suits of clothes, or dresses, do, according to certain compositions, receive different appellations. If one of them be trimmed up with a gold chain, and a red gown, and a white rod, and a great horse, it is called a Lord-Mayor : if certain ermines and furs be placed in a certain position, we style them a Judge ; and so an apt conjunction of lawn and black satin we entitle a Bishop.
Others of these professors, though agreeing in the main system, were yet more refined upon certain branches of it ; and held, that man was an animal compounded of two dresses, the natural and celestial suit, which were the body and the soul: that the soul was the outward, and the body the inward clothing; that the latter was ex traduce; but the former of daily creation and circumfusion ; this last they proved by scripture, because in them we live, and move, and have our being; as Hkewise by phi- losophy, because they are all in all, and all in every part. Besides, said they, separate these two, and you will find the body to be only a senseless un- savoury carcase. By all which it is manifest, that the outward dress must needs be the soul.
To this system of religion, were tagged several subaltern doctrines, which were entertained with great vogue; as particularly, the faculties of the mind were deduced by the learned among them in this manner; embroidery, was sheer wit; gold fringe, was agreeable conversation; gold lace, was repartee; a huge long periwig, was humour; and
Swift
45
a coat full of powder, was very good raillery: all which required abundance of finesse and delicatesse to manage with advantage, as well as a strict observ- ance after times and fashions.
I have, with much pains and reading, collected out of ancient authors, this short summary of a body of philosophy and divinity, which seems to have been composed by a vein and race of thinking, very different from any other systems either ancient or modern. And it was not merely to entertain or sat- isfy the reader's curiosity, but rather to give him light into several circumstances of the following story; that knowing the state of dispositions and opinions in an age so remote, he may better compre- hend those great events, which were the issue of them. I advise therefore the courteous reader to peruse with a world of application, again and again, whatever I have written upon this matter. And leaving these broken ends, I carefully gather up the chief thread of my story and proceed.
These opinions, therefore, were so universal, as well as the practices of them, among the refined part of court and town, that our three brother- adventurers, as their circumstances then stood, were strangely at a loss. For, on the one side, the three ladies they addressed themselves to, (whom we have named already,) were at the very top of the fashion, and abhorred all that were below it but the breadth of a hair. On the other side, their father's will was very precise, and it was the main precept in it, with the greatest penalties annexed, not to add to, or diminish from their coats one thread, without a positive command in the will. Now, the coats their father had left them were, 't is true, of very good
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cloth, and, besides, so neatly sewn, you would swear they were all of a piece ; but, at the same time, very plain, and with little or no ornament: and it hap- pened, that before they were a month in town, great shoulder-knots came up : straight all the world was shoulder-knots ; no approaching the ladies' ruelles without the quota of shoulder-knots. That fellow, cries one, has no soul ; where is his shoulder-knot ? Our three brethren soon discovered their want by sad experience, meeting in their walks with forty mortifications and indignities. If they went to the play-house, the door-keeper showed them into the twelve-penny gallery. If they called a boat, says a waterman, I am first sculler. If they stepped to the Rose to take a bottle, the drawer would cry, Friend, we sell no ale. If they went to visit a lady, a footman met them at the door, with. Pray send up your message. In this unhappy case, they went immediately to consult their father's will, read it over and over, but not a word of the shoulder-knot. What should they do? What temper should they find? Obedience was absolutely necessary, and yet shoulder-knots appeared extremely requisite. After much thought, one of the brothers, who happened to be more book-learned than the other two, said, he had found an expedient. 'T is true, said he, there is nothing here in this will, totidem verbis,^ making mention of shoulder-knots: but I dare conjecture, we may find them inclusive, or totidem syllabis.^ This distinction was immediately approved by all; and so they fell again to examine the will. But their evil star had so directed the matter, that the first syllable was not to be found in the whole writ-
1 In so many words. ^ in so many syllables.
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ing. Upon which disappointment, he, who found the former evasion, took heart, and said, " Brothers, there are yet hopes ; for though we cannot find them totidem verbis, nor totidem syllabis, I dare engage we shall make them out, tertio modo,^ or totidem Uteris." ^ This discovery was also highly com- mended, upon which they fell once more to the scrutiny, and picked out S,H,0,U,L,D,E,R; when the same planet, enemy to their repose, had won- derfully contrived, that a K was not to be found. Here was a weighty difficulty ! But the distinguish- ing brother, (for whom we shall hereafter find a name,) now his hand was in, proved by a very good argument, that K was a modern, illegitimate letter, unknown to the learned ages, nor anywhere to be found in ancient manuscripts. " 'T is true," said he, " Calendse hath in Q.V.C.^ been sometimes writ with a K, but erroneously ; for, in the best copies, it ever spelt with a C. And, by consequence, it was a gross mistake in our language to spell ' knot ' with a K ; " but that from henceforward, he would take care it should be writ with a C. Upon this all farther difficulty vanished ; shoulder-knots were made clearly out to be jure paterno: ^ and our three gentlemen swaggered vsdth as large and as flaunting ones as the best.
But, as human happiness is of a very short dura- tion, so in those days were human fashions, upon which it entirely depends. Shoulder-knots had their time, and we must now imagine them in their de-
1 By the third method.
2 In so many letters.
^ Quibusdam veteribus codicibus ; /. e. some ancient manu- scripts.
* According to the Father's will.
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dine; for a certain lord came just from Paris, with fifty yards of gold lace upon his coat, exactly trimmed after the court fashion of that month. In two days all mankind appeared closed up in bars of gold lace: whoever durst peep abroad without his complement of gold lace, was ill received among the women. What should our three knights do in this momentous affair? They had sufficiently strained a point already in the affair of shoulder- knots. Upon recourse to the will, nothing appeared there but altum silenthmi} That of the shoulder- knots was a loose, flying, circumstantial point; but this of gold lace seemed too considerable an alter- ation without better warrant. It did aliquo modo essentice adhcerere,^ and therefore required a posi- tive precept. But about this time it fell out, that the learned brother aforesaid had read *' Aristotelis Dialectica," and especially that wonderful piece de Interpretatione, which has the faculty of teaching its readers to find out a meaning in everything but itself, like commentators on the Revelations, who proceed prophets without understanding a syllable of the text. " Brothers," said he, '* you are to be informed, that of wills duo sunt genera,^ nuncupa- tory * and scriptory ; that in the scriptory will here before us, there is no precept or mention about gold lace, conceditur: ^ but, si idem airirmetxir de mtncu- patorio, negatur.^ For, brothers, if you remember,
1 Profound silence.
2 Belong in a way to the essentials. 8 There are two kinds.
4 By this is meant tradition, allowed by the Roman Catholics to have equal authority with the scripture.
^ It is conceded.
6 If the same be affirmed about the nuncupatory, the opposite is true.
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we heard a fellow say, when we were boys, that he heard my father's man say, that he heard my father say, that he would advise his sons to get gold lace on their coats, as soon as ever they could procure money to buy it," " That is very true," cries the other ; " I remember it perfectly well," said the third. And so without more ado got the largest gold lace in the parish, and walked about as fine as lords.
A while after there came up all in fashion a pretty sort of flame-coloured satin for linings; and the mercer brought a pattern of it immediately to our three gentlemen : " An please your worships," said
he, " my Lord C and Sir J. W. had linings out
of this very piece last night; it takes wonderfully, and I shall not have a remnant left enough to make my wife a pin-cushion, by to-morrow morning at ten o'clock." Upon this, they fell again to rummage the will, because the present case also required a positive precept, the lining being held by orthodox writers to be of the essence of the coat. After long search, they could fix upon nothing to the matter in hand, except a short advice of their father's in the will, to take care of fire, and put out their candles before they went to sleep.-^ This, though a good deal for the purpose, and helping very far towards self-conviction, yet not seeming wholly of force to es- tablish a command ; and being resolved to avoid far- ther scruple, as well as future occasion for scandal, says he that was the scholar, " I remember to have read in wills of a codicil annexed, which is indeed a part of the will, and what it contains hath equal
1 That is, to take care of hell ; and, in order to do that, to subdue and extinguish their lusts.
4
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authority with the rest. Now, I have been consid- ering of this same will here before us, and I cannot reckon it to be complete for want of such a codicil : I will therefore fasten one in its proper place very dexterously : I have had it by me some time ; it was written by a dog-keeper of my grandfather's.^ and talks a great deal, (as good luck would have it,) of this very flame-coloured satin." The project was immediately approved by the other two; an old parchment scroll was tagged on according to art, in the form of a codicil annexed, and the satin bought and worn.
Next winter a player, hired for the purpose by the corporation of fringe-makers, acted his part in a new comedy, all covered with silver fringe, and, according to the laudable custom, gave rise to that fashion. Upon which the brothers, consulting their father's will, to their great astonishment found these words ; '* Iteniy I charge and command my said three sons to wear no»sort of silver fringe upon or about their said coats," etc., with a penalty, in case of disobedience, too long here to insert. However, after some pause, the brother so often mentioned for his erudition, who was well skilled in criticisms, had found in a certain author, which he said should be nameless, that the same word, which, in the will, is called fringe, does also signify a broom-stick, and doubtless ought to have the same interpretation in this paragraph. This another of the brothers dis- liked, because of that epithet silver, which could not, he humbly conceived, in propriety of speech, be reasonably applied to a broom-stick; but it was
1 This refers to that part of the Apocrypha where mention is made of Tobit and his dog.
Swift 5 1
replied upon him, that his epithet was understood in a mythological and allegorical sense. However, he objected again, why their father should forbid them to wear a broom-stick on their coats, a caution that seemed unnatural and impertinent; upon which he was taken up short, as one who spoke irreverently of a mystery, which doubtless was very useful and significant, but ought not to be over-curiously pried into, or nicely reasoned upon. And, in short, their father's authority being now considerably sunk, this expedient was allowed to serve as a lawful dispen- sation for wearing their full proportion of silver fringe.
A while after was revived an old fashion, long antiquated, of embroidery with Indian figures of men, women, and children. Here they remembered but too well how their father had always abhorred this fashion; that he made several paragraphs on purpose, importing his utter detestation of it, and bestowing his everlasting curse to his sons, when- ever they should wear it. For all this, in a few days they appeared higher in the fashion than anybody else in the town. But they solved the matter by say- ing, that these figures were not at all the same with those that were formerly worn, and were meant in the will. Besides, they did not wear them iii the sense as forbidden by their father; but as they were a commendable custom, and of great use to the public. That these rigorous clauses in the will did therefore require some allowance, and a fa- vourable interpretation, and ought to be understood cum grano salis,'^
But fashions perpetually altering in that age, the
1 With a grain of salt.
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scholastic brother grew weary of searching farther evasions, and solving everlasting contradictions. Resolved, therefore, at all hazards, to comply with the modes of the world, they concerted matters to- gether, and agreed unanimously to lock up their father's will in a strong box, brought out of Greece or Italy, (I have forgot which,) and trouble them- selves no farther to examine it, but only refer to its authority whenever they thought fit. In conse- quence whereof, a while after it grew a general mode to wear an infinite number of points, most of them tagged with silver: upon which, the scholar pronounced ex cathedra, that points were absolutely jure paterno, as they might very well remember. 'T is true, indeed, the fashion prescribed somewhat more than were directly named in the will; how- ever, that they, as heirs-general of their father, had power to make and add certain clauses for public emolument, though not deducible, totidem verbis, from the letter of the will, or else multa absurda seqiierentiir} This was understood for canonical, and therefore, on the following Sunday, they came to church all covered with points.
1 Many absurdities would follow.
Ill
ADDISON
ADDISON: FIRST OF THE HUMORISTS
THE English essay as represented by Bacon and Swift was based on purely classic models, as far as its literary style is concerned, and if it had not been for the advent of Steele and Addison there might never have been such a thing as the distinctive English essay. Though it is hardly safe to call anything original, we may be permitted, perhaps, to consider the style of writing represented in the " Spectator " as a peculiarly English development. Of course there was Montaigne; but Addison would have been what he is even if Montaigne had never existed.
It seems hard for Richard Steele that while he is the acknowledged inventor of the gossipy paper about town humors, his friend Addison has got- ten all the glory. The fact is, in itself the style of Steele is more fascinating than Addison's even to us to-day, and if essays were to be selected for their style alone, some of Steele's would have to be included. But you may search the " Tatler," the " Spectator," and the " Guardian " from end to end, and every paper whose subject seems to
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make it worth preserving as part of a permanent literature turns out to be Addison's. Steele was a good journalist, and as a retailer of current gossip he was excellent ; but it was Addison who raised his gossip to the plane of universal interest.
We have already pointed out the fact that the " Spectator " was in reality a sort of printed let- ter, received every morning by the people of the town and read with their other letters. Its sub- ject was naturally the little things of life, the humors of life, and its charm lay in its humor. It is characteristically English, and no other style has had such a widespread influence on English writers. Johnson and Goldsmith adopted it; Johnson not quite successfully. Goldsmith with surpassing success in his novel '' The Vicar of Wakefield." Charles Lamb was a lineal literary descendant of Addison, and as far as his style is concerned, so was Thackeray. Without ques- tion Lamb and Thackeray both surpassed their original.
Because of the debt that so many great writers owe to Addison, he has been extravagantly praised by them, and the echo of their mighty words is still reverberating. In his " Primer of English Literature," so eminent a critic as Stop- ford Brooke, after justly describing Addison's " fine and tender " humor, declares of his style that " in its varied cadence and subtle ease it has never been surpassed." " This," says Matthew Arnold, '' seems to me to be going a little too
Addison 57
far. One could not say more of Plato's. What- ever his services to his time, Addison is for us now a writer whose range and force of thought are not considerable enough to make him in- teresting; and his style cannot equal in varied cadence and subtle ease the style of a man like Plato/^DCcause without range and force of thought air resources of style, whether in cadence or in subtlety, are not and cannot be brought out." /Arnold might also have pointed to the two English writers who have surpassed Addison on his own ground. The hero of the " Spectator" is of interest to us because he is the iirst of the humorists, and because his essays, lacking the subtlety of later writers, are simpler models for our study. Franklin found in them excellent exercises for the beginner in composition, and to this day none better have been found.
SIR ROGER DE COVERLEY IN THE COUNTRY
Sir Roger at Home
HAVING often received an invitation from my friend Sir Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in the country, I last week accom- panied him thither, and am settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, who is very well acquainted with my humour.
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lets me rise and go to bed when I please; dine at his own table, or in my chamber, as I think fit ; sit still, and say nothing, without bidding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have been walking in his fields, I have observed them stealing a sight of me over an hedge, and have heard the knight desiring them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be stared at.
I am the more at ease in Sir Roger's family, because it consists of sober and staid persons ; for as the knight is the best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants; and as he is beloved by all about him, his servants never care for leaving him: by this means his domestics are all in years, and grown old with their master. You would take his valet de chambre for his brother; his butler is gray-headed ; his groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen ; and his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog; and in a gray pad, that is kept in the stable with great care and tenderness out of regard to his past services, though he has been useless for several years.
I could not but observe with a great deal of pleas- ure, the joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient domestics upon my friend's arrival at his country-seat. Some of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old master; every one of them pressed forward to do something for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not em- ployed. At the same time the good old knight, with a mixture of the father and the master of the family, tempered the inquiries after his own affairs with
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several kind questions relating to themselves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his family are in good humour, and none so much as the person whom he diverts himself with : on the contrary, if he coughs, or betrays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants.
My worthy friend has put me under the particular care of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the rest of his fellow-servants, wonder- fully desirous of pleasing me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as of his par- ticular friend.
My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself in the woods or the fields, is a very vener- able man, who is ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a person of good sense, and some learning, of a very regular life, and oblig- ing conversation : he heartily loves Sir Roger, and knows that he is very much in the old knight's es- teem; so that he lives in the family rather as a relation than a dependant.
I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an humourist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance, which makes them particu- larly his, and distinguishes them from those of other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very innocent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue would appear in their
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common and ordinary colours. As I was walking with him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man whom I have just now mentioned; and, without staying for my answer, told me, that he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and Greek at his own table ; for which reason, he desired a par- ticular friend of his at the University, to find him out a clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning, of a good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, a man that understood a little of backgammon. My friend (says Sir Roger) found me out this gentleman, who, besides the en- dowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the parsonage of the parish; and because I know his value, have settled upon him a good an- nuity for life. If he outlives me, he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years ; and, though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other of my tenants, his parishioners. There has not been a lawsuit in the parish since he has lived among them: if any dispute arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened above once, or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons which have been printed in English, and only begged of him that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, that they follow one another
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naturally, and make a continued system of practical divinity.
As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman we were talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight's asking him who preached to- morrow (for it was Saturday night), told us, the Bishop of St. Asaph in the morning, and Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of preachers for the whole year, where I saw with a great deal of pleasure. Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Doctor Barrow, Doctor Calamy, with several living authors who have published dis- courses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much ap- proved of my friend's insisting upon the qualifica- tions of a good aspect and a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of his figure and delivery, as well as the discourses he pronounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is Hke the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor.
I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy would follow this example, and, instead of wasting their spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeavour after a handsome elo- cution, and all those other talents that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, but more edifying to the people.
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Sir Roger and Will Wimble
AS I was yesterday morning walking with Sir Roger before his house, a country fellow brought him a huge fish, which, he told him, Mr. William Wimble had caught that very morning; and that he presented it with his service to him, and intended to come and dine with him. At the same time he delivered a letter, which my friend read to me as soon as the messenger left him.
" Sir Roger, — I desire you to accept of a Jack, which is the best I have caught this season. I in- tend to come and stay with you a week, and see how the Perch bite in the Black river. I observed with some concern, the last time I saw you upon the Bowling-green, that your whip wanted a lash to it : I will bring half a dozen with me that I twisted last week which I hope will serve you all the time you are in the country. I have not been out of the saddle for six days last past, having been at Eaton with Sir John's eldest son. He takes to his learning hugely.
" I am. Sir, your humble Servant,
" Will Wimble."
This extraordinary letter, and message that ac- companied it, made me very curious to know the character and quality of the gentleman who sent them ; which I found to be as follows. Will Wimble is younger brother to a baronet, and de- scended of the ancient family of the Wimbles. He is now between forty and fifty; but being bred to
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no business, and born to no estate, he generally lives with his elder brother as superintendent of his game. He hunts a pack of dogs better than any man in the country, and is very famous for finding out a hare. He is extremely well versed in all the little handicrafts of an idle man : he makes a May- fly to a miracle; and furnishes the whole country with angle-rods. As he is a good-natured, officious fellow, and very much esteemed upon account of his family, he is a welcome guest at every house, and keeps up a good correspondence among all the gentlemen about him. He carries a tulip root in his pocket from one to another, or exchanges a puppy between a couple of friends that live perhaps in the opposite sides of the county. Will is a par- ticular favourite of all the young heirs, whom he frequently obliges with a net that he has weaved, or a setting-dog that he has made himself ; he now and then presents a pair of garters of his own knitting to their mothers or sisters ; and raises a great deal of mirth among them, by inquiring, as often as he meets them, " how they wear ? " These gentleman- like manufactures, and obliging little humours, make Will the darling of the country.
Sir Roger was proceeding in the character of him, when he saw him make up to us with two or three hazel-twigs in his hand, that he had cut in Sir Roger's woods, as he came through them in his way to the house. I was very much pleased to observe on one side the hearty and sincere welcome with which Sir Roger received him, and on the other, the secret joy which his guest discovered at sight of the good old knight. After the first salutes were over, Will desired Sir Roger to lend him one of his
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servants to carry a set of shuttlecocks, he had with him in a little box, to a lady that lived about a mile off, to whom it seems he had promised such a pres- ent for above this half-year. Sir Roger's back was no sooner turned, but honest Will began to tell me of a large cock pheasant that he had sprung in one of the neighbouring woods, with two or three other adventures of the same nature. Odd and uncom- mon characters are the game that I look for, and most delight in ; for which reason I was as much pleased with the novelty of the person that talked to me, as he could be for his life with the springing of a pheasant, and therefore listened to him with more than ordinary attention.
In the midst of his discourse the bell rung to din- ner, where the gentleman I have been speaking of had the pleasure of seeing the huge Jack, he had caught, served up for the first dish in a most sump- tuous manner. Upon our sitting down to it, he gave us a long account how he had hooked it, played with it, foiled it, and at length drew it out upon the bank, with several other particulars, that lasted all the first course. A dish of wild fowl, that came afterwards, furnished conversation for the rest of the dinner, which concluded with a late invention of Will's for improving the quail-pipe.
Upon withdrawing into my room after dinner, I was secretly touched with compassion towards the honest gentleman that had dined with us ; and could not but consider, with a great deal of concern, how so good an heart, and such busy hands, were wholly employed in trifles ; that so much humanity should be so Httle beneficial to others, and so much industry so little advantageous to himself. The same temper
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of mind, and application to affairs, might have recommended him to the pubHc esteem, and have raised his fortune in another station of Hfe. What good to his country, or himself, might not a trader or merchant have done with such useful, though ordinary, qualifications ?
Will Wimble's is the case of many a younger brother of a great family, who had rather see their children starve like gentlemen, than thrive in a trade or profession that is beneath their quality. This humour fills several parts of Europe with pride and beggary. It is the happiness of a trading nation, like ours, that the younger sons, though incapable of any liberal art or profession, may be placed in such a way of life, as may perhaps enable them to vie with the best of their family: accord- ingly, we find several citizens that were launched mto the world with narrow fortunes, rising by an honest industry to greater estates than those of their elder brothers. It is not improbable but Will was formerly tried at divinity, law, or physic; and that finding his genius did not lie that way, his parents gave him up at length to his own inventions. But certainly, however improper he might have been for studies of a higher nature, he was perfectly well turned for the occupations of trade and commerce.
Sir Roger at Church '.
I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday ; and think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human institution, it would be the best method that could have been thought of for the
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polishing and civilising of mankind. It is certain the country-people would soon degenerate into a kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet together with their best faces, and in their cleanHest habits, to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear their duties explained to them, and join together in adoration of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds the notions of religion, but as it puts both the sexes upon appearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the village. A country-fellow distinguishes himself as much in the churchyard as a citizen does upon the Change, the whole parish-politics being generally discussed in that place either after sermon or before the bell rings.
My friend Sir Roger, being a good churchman, has beautified the inside of his church with several texts of his own choosing; he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and railed in the com- munion-table at his own expense. He has often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his parishioners very irregular; and that in order to make them kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them a hassock and a Common-Prayer Book; and at the same time employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the tunes of the psalms ; tipon which they now very much value themselves, and indeed out-do most of the country churches that I have ever heard.
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As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congrega- tion, he keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to sleep in it besides himself; for if by chance he has been surprised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody else nod- ding, either wakes them himself, or sends his ser- vant to them. Several other of the old knight's particularities break out upon these occasions; sometimes he will be lengthening out a verse in the singing-psalms, half a minute after the rest of the congregation have done with it; sometimes, when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pronounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer; and sometimes stands up when everybody else is upon their knees, to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants are missing.
I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all circum- stances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his behaviour ; besides that the general good sense and worthiness of his character, make his friends observe these little singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good qualities.
As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody pre- sumes to stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight walks down from his seat in the chan-
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eel between a double row of his tenants, that stand bowing to him on each side; and every now and then he inquires how such an one's wife, or mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church ; which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that is absent.
The chaplain has often told me, that upon a cate- chising-day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that answers well, he has ordered a Bible to be given him next day for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise added five pounds a year to the clerk's place ; and that he may encourage the young fellows to make themselves perfect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it according to merit.
The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chaplain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the more remarkable, because the very next village is famous for the differences and conten- tions that rise between the parson and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. The parson is always at the squire, and the squire, to be re- venged on the parson, never comes to church. The squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe- stealers ; while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity of his order, and insinuates to them, almost in every sermon, that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said his prayers either in public or private this half year; and that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his manners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation.
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Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, are very fatal to the ordinary people; who are so used to be dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning; and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how important soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they know there are several men of five hundred a year who do not beheve it.
THE MAN OF THE TOWN
MY friend Will Honeycomb values himself very much upon what he calls the knowledge of mankind, which has cost him many disasters in his youth; for Will reckons every misfortune that he has met with among the women, and every ren- counter among the men, as parts of his education, and fancies he should never have been the man he is, had not he broke windows, knocked down con- stables, and disturbed honest people with his mid- night serenades, when he was a young fellow. The engaging in adventures of this nature Will calls the studying of mankind ; and terms this knowledge of the town, the knowledge of the world. Will in- genuously confesses, that for half his life his head ached every morning with reading of men over- night; and at present comforts himself under cer- tain pains which he endures from time to time, that without them he could not have been acquainted with the gallantries of the age. This Will looks upon as the learning of a gentleman, and regards all other kinds of science as the accomplishments
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of one whom he calls a scholar, a bookish man, or a philosopher.
For these reasons Will shines in mixed company, where he has the discretion not to go out of his depth, and has often a certain way of making his real ignorance appear a seeming one. Our club, however, has frequently caught him tripping, at which times they never spare him. For as Will often insults us with the knowledge of the town, we sometimes take our revenge upon him by our knowledge of books.
He was last week producing two or three letters which he writ in his youth to a coquette lady. The raillery of them was natural, and well enough for a mere man of the town ; but, very unluckily, several of the words were wrong spelt. Will laughed this off at first as well as he could, but finding himself pushed on all sides, and especially by the templar, he told us, with a little passion, that he never Hked pedantry in spelling, and that he spelt like a gentle- man, and not like a scholar: upon this Will had recourse to his old topic of showing the narrow- spiritedness, the pride, and ignorance of pedants; which he carried so far, that upon my retiring to my lodgings, I could not forbear throwing together such reflections as occurred to me upon that subject.
A man who has been brought up among books, and is able to talk of nothing else, is a very indiffer- ent companion, and what we call a pedant. But, methinks, we should enlarge the title, and give it every one that does not know how to think out of his profession, and particular way of life.
What is a greater pedant than a mere man of the town ? Bar him the play-houses, a catalogue of the
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reigning beauties, and an account of a few fashion- able distempers that have befallen him, and you strike him dumb. How many a pretty gentleman's knowledge lies all within the verge of the court? He will tell you the names of the principal favour- ites, repeat the shrewd sayings of a man of quality, whisper an intrigue that is not yet blown upon by common fame ; or, if the sphere of his observations is a little larger than ordinary, will perhaps enter into all the incidents, turns, and revolutions in a game of ombre. When he has gone thus far, he has shown you the whole circle of his accomplishments, his parts are drained, and he is disabled from any further conversation. What are these but rank pedants ? and yet these are the men who value them- selves most on their exemption from the pedantry of colleges.
I might here mention the military pedant, who always talks in a camp, and is storming towns, making lodgments and fighting battles from one end of the year to the other. Everything he speaks smells of gunpowder ; if you take away his artillery from him, he has not a word to say for himself. I might likewise mention the law pedant, that is per- petually putting cases, repeating the transactions of Westminster Hall, wrangling with you upon the most indifferent circumstances of life, and not to be convinced of the distance of a place, or of the most trivial point in conversation, but by dint of argument. The state pedant is wrapped up in news, and lost in politics. If you mention either of the kings of Spain or Poland, he talks very notably; but if you go out of the gazette you drop him. In short, a mere courtier, a mere soldier, a mere
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scholar, a mere anything, is an insipid pedantic character, and equally ridiculous.
Of all the species of pedants, which I have men- tioned, the book pedant is much the most support- able; he has at least an exercised understanding, and a head which is full though confused, so that a man who converses with him may often receive from him hints of things that are worth knowing, and what he may possibly turn to his own advan- tage, though they are of little use to the owner. The worst kind of pedants among learned men, are such as are naturally endowed with a very small share of common sense, and have read a great number of books without taste or distinction. . The truth of it is, learning, like travelling, and all other methods of improvement, as it finishes good sense, so it makes a silly man ten thousand times more insufferable, by supplying variety of matter to his impertinence, and giving him an opportunity of abounding in absurdities.
THE FAN EXERCISE
I DO not know whether to call the following letter a satire upon coquettes, or a representa- tion of their several fantastical accompHshments, or what other title to give it ; but as it is I shall com- municate it to the public. It will sufficiently explain its own intentions, so that I shall give it my reader at length, without either preface or postscript.
" Mr. Spectator, — Women are armed with fans as men with swords, and sometimes do more
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73
execution with them. To the end, therefore, that ladies may be entire mistresses of the weapon which they bear, I have erected an Academy for the train- ing up of young women in the Exercise of the Fan, according to the most fashionable airs and motions that are now practised at court. The ladies who carry fans under me are drawn up twice a day in my great hall, where they are instructed in the use of their arms, and exercised by the following words of command:
Handle your Fans, Unftcrl your Faiis, Discharge your Fans^ Ground your Faiis, Recover your Fans, Flutter your Fans.
By the right observation of these few plain words of command, a woman of a tolerable genius who will apply herself diligently to her exercise for the space of one half year, shall be ah^le to give her fan all the graces that can possibly enter into that little modish machine.
" But to the end that my readers may form to themselves a right notion of this exercise, I beg leave to explain it to them in all its parts. When my female regiment is drawn up in array, with every one her weapon in her hand, upon my giving the word to Handle their Fans, each of them shakes her fan at me with a smile, then gives her right- hand "woman a tap upon the shoulder, then presses her lips with the extremity of her fan, then lets her arms fall in an easy motion, and stands in readiness to receive the next word of command. All this is done with a close fan, and is generally learned in the first week.
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" The next motion is that of Unfurling the Fan, in which are comprehended several little flirts and vibrations, as also gradual and deliberate openings, with many voluntary fallings asunder in the fan itself, that are seldom learned under a month's prac- tice. This part of the exercise pleases the specta- tors more than any other, as it discovers on a sudden an infinite number of Cupids, garlands, altars, birds, beasts, rainbows, and the like agreeable figures, that display themselves to view, whilst every one in the regiment holds a picture in her hand.
" Upon m.y giving the word to Discharge their Fans, they give one general crack, that may be heard at a. considerable distance when the wind sits fair. This is one of the most difficult parts of the exercise ; but I have several ladies with me, who at their first entrance could not give a pop loud enough to be heard at the further end of a room, who can now Discharge a Fan in such a manner, that it shall make a report like a pocket-pistol. I have likewise taken care (in order to hinder young women from letting off their fans in wrong places or unsuitable occasions) to show upon what subject the crack of a fan may come in properly. I have likewise in- vented a fan, with which a girl of sixteen, by the help of a little wind which is enclosed about one of the largest sticks, can make as loud a crack as a woman of fifty with an ordinary fan.
" When the fans are thus discharged, the word of command in course is to Ground their Fans. This teaches a lady to quit her fan gracefully when she throws it aside, in order to take up a pack of cards, adjust a curl of hair, replace a fallen pin, or apply herself to any other matter of importance.
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This part of the exercise, as it only consists in tossing a fan with an air upon a long table (which stands by for that purpose) may be learnt in two days' time as well as in a twelvemonth.
" When my female regiment is thus disarmed, I generally let them walk about the room for some time; when on a sudden (like ladies that look upon their watches after a long visit) they all of them hasten to their arms, catch them up in a hurry, and place themselves in their proper stations upon my calling out Recover your Fans. This part of the exercise is not difficult, provided a woman applies her thoughts to it.
'' The Fluttering of the Fan is the last, and, in- deed, the master-piece of the whole exercise; but if a lady does not misspend her time, she may make herself mistress of it in three months. I generally lay aside the dog-days and the hot time of the sum- mer for the teaching of this part of the exercise ; for as soon as ever I pronounce Flutter your Fans, the place is filled with so many zephyrs and gentle breezes as are very refreshing in that season of the year, though they might be dangerous to ladies of a tender constitution in any other.
" There is an infinite variety of motions to be made use of in the Flutter of a Fan : there is the angry flutter, the modest flutter, the timorous flutter, the confused flutter, the merry flutter, and the amor- ous flutter. Not to be tedious, there is scarce any emotion in the mind which does not produce a suitable agitation in the fan ; insomuch, that if I only see the fan of a disciplined lady, I know very well whether she laughs, frowns, or blushes. I have seen a fan so very angry, that it would have been
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dangerous for the absent lover who provoked it to have come within the wind of it ; and at other times so very languishing, that I have been glad for the lady's sake the lover was at a sufficient distance from it. I need not add, that a fan is either a prude or coquette, according to the nature of the person who bears it. To conclude my letter, I must ac- quaint you, that I have from my own observations compiled a little treatise for the use of my scholars, entitled. The Passions of the Fan; which I will communicate to you, if you think it may be of use to the public. I shall have a general review on Thursday next ; to which you shall be very welcome if you will honour it with your presence.
" I am," etc.
" P. S. I teach young gentlemen the whole art of gallanting a fan.
'' N. B. I have several little plain fans made for this use, to avoid expense."
IV
LAMB
LAMB:
GREATEST OF THE HUMORISTS
IN spite of De Quincey's declaration that Lamb never could become popular, that his literary excellencies were too fine and ex- quisite for that, Lamb has proved to be the most popular essayist who ever wrote the English lan- guage. Though the sum total of his good work is very small, his position is as secure as that of any writer since Shakespeare.
Though Lamb may be compared to Addison at his best; to Goldsmith, who had much of the same overflowing love in his character and is all but as fondly loved as Lamb himself; to Thackeray, who always was a man of love and the humor of love, still Charles Lamb stands unique, unimitated and inimitable.
The only way in which we can understand Lamb is in the light of his personal history. His father was all his life a servant in the family of a Mr. Salt, a barrister. As a reward for faithful services on the part of the father, Charles Lamb the son was sent to the famous London school of Christ's Hospital, where he came into contact with Coleridge. From Christ's Hospital Coler-
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idge went to Oxford, and Lamb to be a clerk in the South Sea House. Later he was transferred to the India House, from the directors of which corporation he drew a salary until he died, a period of nearly forty years.
Soon after he entered the India House, when Lamb was twenty-one, his sister Mary, ten years his senior, in a passing fit of insanity, killed her mother with a table knife. Soon after, their father died. Charles was attached to a young lady whom he hoped to marry; but he gave up his prospect in this direction, and devoted his entire life to his sister. She was confined in an asylum for a time, but soon recovered her sanity and was released upon her brother's making him- self personally responsible for her. Her attacks of insanity returned many times ; but she herself could feel them coming, and we read of their going hand in hand across the fields to Hoxton (the asylum). Charles himself was confined in an asylum for six weeks.
As an antidote to the blues, and an offset to the deathlike cloud always hanging over him. Lamb gathered many friends about him, and engaged in regular correspondence with some of the best known literary characters of his day. As his clerical duties did not begin until ten o'clock, and ended at four, he had considerable leisure to study and cultivate his friends. He wrote some verses that were published in a volume with Coleridge's, and composed two dramatic pieces,
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which were unsuccessful. With his sister he re- wrote some of Shakespeare's plays in the form of tales for children, and that book alone of his earlier efforts has become popular. He did some editing when he was about thirty-three, after which he lapsed into literary silence for twelve years. Finally, at the age of forty-five, just five years before he was to retire from the India House on a pension, he contributed to the "Lon- don Magazine," then just rehabilitated, a paper on " The South Sea House," signing it " Elia," — the name of an Italian fellow-clerk of those days of twenty-five years before. The success of this paper brought forth the best of the other '' Essays of Elia " within a period of three years. They were in effect Lamb's letters to his friends elaborated into permanent literary form; and Lamb's collected " Letters " must stand on every bookshelf, side by side with '' Elia."
Lamb's essays and letters are elaborate play, the foolery that best dispels the blue-devils with which all humanity is more or less afflicted. What he himself had found effective through a period of twenty-five years he kindly offers to us. The tragedy behind it all, in full view of which the essays were written, makes their foolishness sublime. If Lamb, by the recipe which he offers, could make his life successful and happy under the trying conditions which were forced upon him and which would certainly have wrecked a less truly noble character, what excuse have we
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for being sad and lugubrious when the sun is clouded ?
Probably the reason why no one has succeeded in imitating Lamb's style successfully is that no one else has been found to bear what he bore for forty years and remain so light, so sweet, so gentle, and so good.
LETTER TO COLERIDGE
March 9, 1822.
DEAR C, — It gives me great satisfaction to hear that the pig turned out so well/ — they are interesting creatures at a certain age; what a pity such buds should blow out into the maturity of rank bacon ! You had all some of the crackling — and brain sauce; did you remember to rub it with butter, and gently dredge it a little, just before the crisis? Did the eyes come away kindly, with no (Edipean avulsion ? Was the crackling the colour of the ripe pomegranate? Had you no cursed com- plement of boiled neck of mutton before it, to blunt the edge of delicate desire? Did you flesh maiden teeth in it ? Not that I sent the pig, or can form the remotest guess what part Owen could play in the business. I never knew him give anything away in my life. He would not begin with strangers. I suspect the pig, after all, was meant for me ; but at the unlucky juncture of time being absent, the pres- ent somehow went round to Highgate. To confess
1 Some one had sent Coleridge a pig, and the gift was errone- ously credited to Lamb.
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an honest truth, a pig is one of those things I could never think of sending away. Teals, widgeons, snipes, barn-door fowl, ducks, geese, — your tame villatic things, — Welsh mutton, collars of brawn, sturgeon, fresh or pickled, your potted char, Swiss cheeses, French pies, early grapes, muscadines, I impart as freely unto my friends as to myself. They are but self-extended ; but pardon me if I stop some- where. Where the fine feeling of benevolence giveth a higher smack than the sensual rarity, there my friends (or any good man) may command me; but pigs are pigs, and I myself therein am nearest to myself. Nay, I should think it an affront, an undervaluing done to Nature, who bestowed such a boon upon me, if in a churlish mood I parted with the precious gift. One of the bitterest pangs I ever felt of remorse was when a child. My kind old aunt had strained her pocket-strings to bestow a sixpenny whole plum-cake upon me. In my way home through the Borough, I met a venerable old man, not a mendicant, but thereabouts, — a look- beggar, not a verbal petitionist; and in the cox- combry of taught-charity, I gave away the cake to him. I walked on a little in all the pride of an Evangelical peacock, when of a sudden my old aunt's kindness crossed me, — the sum it was to her; the pleasure she had a right to expect that I — not the old impostor — should take in eating her cake; the cursed ingratitude by which, under the colour of a Christian virtue, I had frustrated her cherished purpose. I sobbed, wept, and took it to heart so grievously that I think I never suffered the like; and I was right. It was a piece of unfeeling hypocrisy, and proved a lesson to me ever after.
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The cake has long been masticated, consigned to dunghill with the ashes of that unseasonable pauper.
But when Providence, who is better to us all than our aunts, gives me a pig, remembering my temp- tation and my fall, I shall endeavour to act towards it more in the spirit of the donor's purpose.
Yours (short of pig) to command in everything,
C. L.
A DISSERTATION UPON ROAST PIG
MANKIND, says a Chinese manuscript, which my friend M. was obliging enough to read and explain to me, for the first seventy thousand ages ate their meat raw, clawing or biting it from the living animal, just as they do in Abyssinia to this day. This period is not obscurely hinted at by their great Confucius in the second chapter of his Mundane Mutations, where he designates a kind of golden age by the term Cho-fang, literally the Cooks' Ploliday. The manuscript goes on to say, that the art of roasting, or rather broiling (which I take to be the elder brother) was accidentally dis- covered in the manner follovv^ing. The swine-herd, Ho-ti, having gone out into the woods one morning, as his m.anner was, to collect mast for his hogs, left his cottage in the care of his eldest son Bo-bo, a great lubberly boy, who being fond of playing with fire, as younkers of his age commonly are, let some sparks escape into a bundle of straw, which kindling quickly, spread the conflagration over every part of their poor mansion, till it was reduced to ashes. Together with the cottage (a sorry antediluvian
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make-shift of a building, you may think it), what was of much more importance, a fine Utter of new- farrowed pigs, no less than nine in number, per- ished. China pigs have been esteemed a luxury all over the East, from the remotest periods that we read of. Bp-bo was in the utmost consternation, as you may think, not so much for the sake of the tene- ment, which his father and he could easily build up again with a few dry branches, and the labour of an hour or two, at any time, as for the loss of the pigs. While he was thinking what he should say to his father, and wringing his hands over the smoking remnants of one of those untimely sufferers, an odour assailed his nostrils, unlike any scent which he had before experienced. What could it proceed from ? — not from the burnt cottage — he had smelt that smell before — indeed, this was by no means the first accident of the kind which had occurred through the negligence of this unlucky young firebrand. Much less did it resemble that of any known herb, weed, or flower. A premonitory moistening at the same time overflowed his nether lip. He knew not what to think. He next stooped down to feel the pig, if there were any signs of life in it. He burnt his fingers, and to cool them he applied them in his booby fashion to his mouth. Some of the crumbs of the scorched skin had come away with his fingers, and for the first time in his life (in the world's life indeed, for before him no man had known it) he tasted — crackling! Again he felt and fumbled at the pig. It did not burn him so much now, still he licked his fingers from a sort of habit. The truth at length broke into his slow understanding, that it was the pig that smelt so, and the pig that tasted so
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delicious ; and surrendering himself up to the new- born pleasure, he fell to tearing up whole handfuls of the scorched skin with the flesh next it, and was cramming it down his throat in his beastly fashion, when his sire entered amid the smoking rafters, armed with retributory cudg'el, and finding how affairs 'stood, began to rain blows upon the young rogue's shoulders, as thick as hail-stones, which Bo-bo heeded not any more than if they had been flies. The tickling pleasure, which he experienced in his lower regions, had rendered him quite callous to any inconveniences he might feel in those remote quarters. His father might lay on, but he could not beat him from his pig, till he had fairly made an end of it, when, becoming a little more sensible of his situation, something like the following dialogue ensued.
" You graceless whelp, what have you got there devouring? Is it not enough that you have burnt me down three houses with your dog's tricks, and be hanged to you ! but you must be eating fire, and I know not what — what have you got there, I say?"
** O father, the pig, the pig! do come and taste how nice the burnt pig eats."
The ears of Ho-ti tingled with horror. He cursed his son, and he cursed himself that ever he should beget a son that should eat burnt pig.
Bo-bo, whose scent was wonderfully sharpened since morning, soon raked out another pig, and fairly rending it asunder, thrust the lesser half by main force into the fists of Ho-ti, still shouting out, " Eat, eat, eat the burnt pig, father, only taste — O Lord!" — with such-like barbarous ejaculations, cramming all the while as if he would choke.
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Ho-ti trembled every joint while he grasped the abominable thing, wavering whether he should not put his son to death for an unnatural young mon- ster, when the crackling scorching his fingers, as it had done his son's, and applying the same remedy to them, he in his turn tasted some of its flavour, which, make what sour mouths he would for a pretence, proved not altogether displeasing to him. In con- clusion (for the manuscript here is a little tedious), both father and son fairly set down to the mess, and never left off till they had despatched all that re- mained of the litter.
Bo-bo was strictly enjoined not to let the secret escape, for the neighbours would certainly have stoned them for a couple of abominable wretches, who could think of improving upon the good meat which God had sent them. Nevertheless, strange stories got about. It was observed that Ho-ti's cottage was burnt down now more frequently than ever. Nothing but fires from this time forward. Some would break out in broad day, others in the night-time. As often as the sow farrowed, so sure was the house of Ho-ti to be in a blaze ; and Ho-ti himself, which was the more remarkable, instead of chastising his son, seemed to grow more indulgent to him than ever. At length they were watched, the terrible mystery discovered, and father and son summoned to take their trial at Pekin, then an in- considerable assize town. Evidence was given, the obnoxious food itself produced in court, and verdict about to be pronounced, w^hen the foreman of the jury begged that some of the burnt pig, of which the culprits stood accused, might be handed into the box. He handled it, and they all handled it; and
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burning their fingers, as Bo-bo and his father had done before them, and nature prompting to each of them the same remedy, against the face of all the facts, and the clearest charge which judge had ever given, — to the surprise of the whole court, towns- folk, strangers, reporters, and all present — without leaving the box, or any manner of consultation what- ever, they brought in a simultaneous verdict of Not Guilty.
The judge, who was a shrewd fellow, winked at the manifest iniquity of the decision : and when the court was dismissed, went privily and bought up all the pigs that could be had for love or money. In a few days his lordship's town-house was observed to be on fire. The thing took wing, and now there was nothing to be seen but fires in every direction. Fuel and pigs grew enormously dear all over the district. The insurance-offices one and all shut up shop. People built slighter and slighter every day, until it was feared that the very science of architecture would in no long time be lost to the world. Thus this custom of firing houses continued, till in process of time, says my manuscript, a sage arose, like our Locke, who made a discovery that the flesh of swine, or indeed of any other animal, might be cooked (burnt, as they called it) without the necessity of consuming a whole house to dress it. Then first began the rude form of a gridiron. Roasting by the string or spit came in a century or two later, I forget in whose dynasty. By such slow degrees, concludes the manuscript, do the most useful, and seemingly the most obvious, arts make their way among mankind
Without placing too implicit faith in the account
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above given, it must be agreed that if a worthy pretext for so dangerous an experiment as setting houses on fire (especially in these days) could be assigned in favour of any culinary object, that pre- text and excuse might be found in roast pig.
Of all the delicacies in the whole mundus edibilis,^ I will maintain it to be the most delicate — princeps obsoniorum.^
I speak not of your grown porkers — things be- tween pig and pork — those hobbledehoys — but a young and tender suckling — under a moon old — guiltless as yet of the sty — with no original speck of the amor immunditicE ,^ the hereditary failing of the first parent, yet manifest — his voice as yet not broken, but something between a childish treble and a grumble — the mild forerunner or prculiidium of a grunt.
He must be roasted. I am not ignorant that our ancestors ate them seethed, or boiled — but what a sacrifice of the exterior tegument!
There is no flavour comparable, I will contend, to that of the crisp, tawny, well-watched, not over- roasted, crackling, as it is well called — the very teeth are invited to their share of the pleasure at this banquet in overcoming the coy, brittle resist- ance — with the adhesive oleaginous — O call it not fat! but an indefinable sweetness growing up to it — the tender blossoming of fat — fat cropped in the bud — taken in the shoot — in the first inno- cence— the cream and quintessence of the child- pig's yet pure food — the lean, no lean, but a kind of animal manna — or, rather, fat and lean (if it
1 Edible world. 2 Chief of viands.
* Love of uncleanness.
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must be so) so blended and running into each other, that both together make but one ambrosian result or common substance.
Behold him while he is " doing " — it seemeth rather a refreshing warmth, than a scorching heat, that he is so passive to. How equably he twirleth round the string! Now he is just done. To see the extreme sensibility of that tender age! he hath wept out his pretty eyes — radiant jellies — shoot- ing stars. —
See him in the dish, his second cradle, how meek he lieth ! — wouldst thou have had this innocent grow up to the grossness and indocility which too often accompany maturer swinehood? Ten to one he would have proved a glutton, a sloven, an ob- stinate, disagreeable animal — wallowing in all manner of filthy conversation — from these sins he is happily snatched away —
Ere sin could blight or sorrow fade, Death came with timely care —
his memory is odoriferous — no clown curseth, while his stomach half rejecteth, the rank bacon — no coalheaver bolteth him in reeking sausages — he hath a fair sepulchre in the grateful stomach of the judicious epicure — and for such a tomb might be content to die.
He is the best of sapors. Pine-apple is great. She is indeed almost too transcendent — a delight, if not sinful, yet so like to sinning, that really a tender-conscienced person would do well to pause — too ravishing for mortal taste, she woundeth and excoriateth the Hps that approach her — Hke lovers' kisses, she biteth — she is a pleasure bordering on
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pain from the fierceness and insanity of her reUsh — but she stoppeth at the palate — she meddleth not with the appetite — and the coarsest hunger might barter her consistently for a mutton-chop.
Pig — let me speak his praise — is no less pro- vocative of the appetite than he is satisfactory to the criticalness of the censorious palate. The strong man may batten on him, and the weakling refuseth not his mild juices.
Unlike to mankind's mixed characters, a bundle of virtues and vices, inexplicably intertwisted, and not to be unravelled without hazard, he is — good throughout. No part of him is better or worse than another. He helpeth, as far as his little means extend, all around. He is the least envious of ban- quets. He is all neighbours' fare.
I am one of those who freely and ungrudgingly impart a share of the good things of this life which fall to their lot (few as mine are in this kind) to a friend. I protest I take as great an interest in my friend's pleasures, his relishes, and proper satis- factions, as in mine own. *' Presents," I often say, " endear Absents." Hares, pheasants, partridges, snipes, barn-door chickens (those "tame villatic fowl"), capons, plovers, brawn, barrels of oysters, I dispense as freely as I receive them. I love to taste them, as it were, upon the tongue of my friend. But a stop must be put somewhere. One would not, like Lear, "give everything." I make my stand upon pig. Methinks it is an ingratitude to the Giver of all good flavours to extra-domiciliate, or send out of the house slightingly (under pretext of friendship, or I know not what) a blessing so particularly adapted, predestined, I may say, to my individual palate. — It argues an insensibility.
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I remember a touch of conscience in this kind at school. My good old aunt, who never parted from me at the end of a holiday without stuffing a sweet- meat, or some nice thing, into my pocket, had dis- missed me one evening with a smoking plum-cake, fresh from the oven. In my way to school (it was over London Bridge) a gray-headed old beggar sa- luted me (I have no doubt, at this time of day, that he was a counterfeit). I had no pence to console him with, and in the vanity of self-denial, and the very coxcombry of charity, school-boy like, I made him a present of — the whole cake! I walked on a little, buoyed up, as one is on such occasions, with a sweet soothing of self-satisfaction; but, before I had got to the end of the bridge, my better feelings returned, and I burst into tears, thinking how un- grateful I had been to my good aunt, to go and give her good gift away to a stranger that I had never seen before, and who might be a bad man for aught I knew ; and then I thought of the pleasure my aunt would be taking in thinking that I — I myself, and not another — would eat her nice cake — and what should I say to her the next time I saw her — how naughty I was to part with her pretty present ! — and the odour of that spicy cake came back upon my recollection, and the pleasure and the curiosity I had taken in seeing her make it, and her joy when she sent it to the oven, and how disappointed she would feel that I had never had a bit of it in my mouth at last — and I blamed my impertinent spirit of alms- giving, and out-of-place hypocrisy of goodness ; and above all I wished never to see the face again of that insidious, good-for-nothinsT, old gray impostor.
Our ancestors were nice in their method of sacri-
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ficing these tender victims. We read of pigS whipt to death with something of a shock, as we hear of any other obsolete custom. The age of discipHne is gone by, or it would be curious to inquire (in a philosophical light merely) what effect this process might have tovx^ards intenerating and dulcifying a substance, naturally so mild and dulcet as the flesh of young pigs. It looks like refining a violet. Yet we should be cautious, while we condemn the inhu- manity, how we censure the wisdom of the prac- tice. It might impart a gusto. —
I remember an hypothesis, argued upon by the young students, when I was at St. Omer's, and maintained with much learning and pleasantry on both sides, " Whether, supposing that the flavour of a pig who obtained his death by whipping {per flagellationem extremam) superadded a pleasure upon the palate of a man more intense than any possible suffering we can conceive in the animal, is man justified in using that method of putting the animal to death ? " I forget the decision.
His sauce should be considered. Decidedly, a few bread crumbs, done up with his liver and brains, and a dash of mild sage. But banish, dear Mrs. Cook, I beseech you, the whole onion tribe. Barbecue your whole hogs to your palate, steep them in shalots, stuff them out with plantations of the rank and guilty garlic ; you cannot poison them, or make them stronger than they are — but con- sider, he is a weakling — a flower.
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MRS. BATTLE'S OPINIONS ON WHIST
" A CLEAR fire, a clean hearth, and the rigour Xjl. of the game." This was the celebrated zvish of old Sarah Battle (now with God), who, next to her devotions, loved a good game of whist. She was none of your lukewarm gamesters, your half- and-half players, who have no objection to take a hand, if you want one to make up a rubber; who affirm that they have no pleasure in winning; that they like to win one game and lose another; that they can while away an hour very agreeably at a card-table, but are indifferent whether they play or no; and will desire an adversary, who has slipped a wrong card, to take it up and play another. These insufferable triflers are the curse of a table. One of these flies will spoil a whole pot. Of such it may be said that they do not play at cards, but only play at playing at them.
Sarah Battle was none of that breed. She de- tested them, as I do, from her heart and soul, and would not, save upon a striking emergency, will- ingly seat herself at the same table with them. She loved a thorough-paced partner, a determined enemy. She took, and gave, no concessions. She hated favours. She never made a revoke, nor ever passed it over in her adversary without exacting the utmost forfeiture. She fought a good fight: cut and thrust. She held not her good sword (her cards) "like a dancer." She sat bolt upright; and neither showed you her cards, nor desired to see yours. All people have their blind side — their
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superstitions ; and I have heard her declare, under the rose, that Hearts was her favourite suit.
I never in my Hfe — and I knew Sarah Battle many of the best years of it — saw her take out her snuff-box when it was her turn to play ; or snuff a candle in the middle of a game ; or ring for a ser- vant, till it was fairly over. She never introduced, or connived at, miscellaneous conversation during its process. As she emphatically observed, cards were cards ; and if I ever saw unmingled distaste in her fine last-century countenance, it was at the airs of a young gentleman of a literary turn, who had been with difficulty persuaded to take a hand; and who, in his excess of candour, declared, that he thought there was no harm in unbending the mind now and then, after serious studies, in recreations of that kind ! She could not bear to have her noble occupation, to which she wound up her faculties, considered in that light. It was her business, her duty, the thing she came into the world to do, — and she did it. She unbent her mind afterwards — over a book.
Pope was her favourite author : his " Rape of the Lock " her favourite work. She once did me the fa- vour to play over with me (with the cards) his cele- brated game of Ombre in that poem ; and to explain to me how far it agreed with, and in what points it would be found to differ from, tradrille. Her illus- trations were apposite and poignant; and I had the pleasure of sending the substance of them to Mr. Bowles; but I suppose they came too late to be inserted among his ingenious notes upon that author.
Quadrille, she has often told me, was her first
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love; but whist had engaged her maturer esteem. The former, she said, was showy and specious, and likely to allure young persons. The uncertainty and quick shifting of partners — a thing which the con- stancy of whist abhors ; the dazzling supremacy and regal investiture of Spadille — absurd, as she justly observed, in the pure aristocracy of whist, where his crown and garter give him no proper power above his brother-nobility of the Aces ; — the giddy vanity, so taking to the inexperienced, of playing alone; above all, the overpowering attractions of a Sans Prendre Vole, — to the triumph of which there is certainly nothing parallel or approaching, in the contingencies of whist ; — all these, she would say, make quadrille a game of captivation to the young and enthusiastic. But whist was the solider game : that was her word. It was a long meal ; not like quadrille, a feast of snatches. One or two rubbers might co-extend in duration with an even- ing. They gave time to form rooted friendships, to cultivate steady enmities. She despised the chance-started, capricious, and ever-fluctuating alliances of the other. The skirmishes of quadrille, she would say, reminded her of the petty ephemeral embroilments of the little Italian states, depicted by Machiavel : perpetually changing postures and con- nexions ; bitter foes to-day, sugared darlings to- morrow ; kissing and scratching in a breath ; — but the wars of whist were comparable to the long, steady, deep-rooted, rational antipathies of the great French and English nations.
A grave simplicity was what she chiefly admired in her favourite game. There was nothing silly in it, Hke the nob in cribbage — nothing superfluous.
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No Hushes — that most irrational of all pleas that a reasonable being can set up : — that any one should claim four by virtue of holding cards of the same mark and colour, without reference to the playing of the game, or the individual worth or pretensions of the cards themselves ! She held this to be a sole- cism; as pitiful an ambition at cards as alliteration is in authorship. She despised superficiality, and looked deeper than the colours of things. — Suits were soldiers, she would say, and must have an uniformity of array to distinguish them : but what should we say to a foolish squire, who should claim a merit from dressing up his tenantry in red jackets, that never were to be marshalled — never to take the field ? — She even wished that whist were more simple than it is ; and, in my mind, would have stripped it of some appendages, which, in the state of human frailty, may be venially, and even com- mendably, allowed of. She saw no reason for the deciding of the trump by the turn of the card. Why not one suit always trumps? — Why two colours, when the mark of the suit would have sufficiently distinguished them without it?
*' But the eye, my dear madam, is agreeably re- freshed with the variety. Man is not a creature of pure reason — he must have his senses delightfully appealed to. We see it in Roman Catholic countries, where the music and the paintings draw in many to worship, whom your quaker spirit of unsensual- izing would have kept out. — You yourself have a pretty collection of paintings — but confess to me, whether, walking in your gallery at Sandham, among those clear Vandykes, or among the Paul Potters in the ante-room, you ever felt your bosom
7
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glow with an elegant delight, at all comparable to that you have it in your power to experience most evenings over a well-arranged assortment of the court-cards? — the pretty antic habits, like heralds in a procession — the gay triumph-assuring scarlets — the contrasting deadly-killing sables — the * hoary majesty of spades ' — Pam in all his glory ! —
" All these might be dispensed with ; and with their naked names upon the drab pasteboard, the game might go on very well, pictureless. But the beauty of cards would be extinguished for ever. Stripped of all that is imaginative in them, they must degenerate into mere gambling. Imagine a dull deal board, or drum head, to spread them on, instead of that nice verdant carpet (next to na- ture's), fittest arena for those courtly combatants to play their gallant jousts and turneys in ! — Ex- change those delicately-turned ivory markers — ■ (work of Chinese artist, unconscious of their sym- bol, — or as profanely slighting their true appli- cation as the arrantest Ephesian journeyman that turned out those little shrines for the goddess) — exchange them for little bits of leather (our ances- tors' money), or chalk and a slate! " —
The old lady, with a smile, confessed the sound- ness of my logic ; and to her approbation of my ar- guments on her favourite topic that evening, I have always fancied myself indebted for the legacy of a curious cribbage-board, made of the finest Sienna marble, which her maternal uncle (old Walter Plumer, whom I have elsewhere celebrated), brought with him from Florence : — this, and a trifle of five hundred pounds, came to me at her death.
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The former bequest (which I do not least value), I have kept with religious care ; though she herself, to confess a truth, was never greatly taken with cribbage. It was an essentially vulgar game, I have heard her say, — disputing with her uncle, who was very partial to it. She could never heartily bring her mouth to pronounce "Go " — or " That 's a go." She called it an ungrammatical game. The pegging teased her. I once knew her to forfeit a rubber (a five-dollar stake) because she would not take advantage of the turn-up knave, which would have given it her, but which she must have claimed by the disgraceful tenure of declaring " tzvo for his heels." There is something extremely gen- teel in this sort of self-denial. Sarah Battle was a gentlewoman born.
Piquet she held the best game at the cards for two persons, though she would ridicule the pedantry of the terms — such as pique — repique — the capot
— they savoured (she thought) of affectation. But games for two, or even three, she never greatly cared for. She loved the quadrate, or square. She would argue thus : — Cards are warfare : the ends are gain, with glory. But cards are war, in disguise of a sport : when single adversaries encounter, the ends proposed are too palpable. By themselves, it is too close a fight; with spectators, it is not much bet- tered. No looker-on can be interested, except for a bet, and then it is a mere affair of money ; he cares not for your luck sympathetically, or for your play.
— Three are still worse; a mere naked war of every man against every man, as in cribbage, with- out league or alliance ; or a rotation of petty and contradictory interests, a succession of heartless
LofC.
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leagues, and not much more hearty infractions of them,- as in tradrille. — But in square games (she meant whist), all that is possible to be attained in card-playing is accompHshed. There are the in- centives of profit with honour, common to every species — though the latter can be but very imper- fectly enjoyed in those other games, where the spectator is only feebly a participator. But the parties in whist are spectators and principals too. They are a theatre to themselves, and a looker-on is not wanted. He is rather worse than nothing, and an impertinence. Whist abhors neutrality, or in- terests beyond its sphere. You glory in some sur- prising stroke of skill or fortune, not because a cold
— or even an interested — bystander witnesses it, but because your partner sympathizes in the contin- gency. You win for two. You triumph for two. Two are exalted. Two again are mortified ; which divides their disgrace, as the conjunction doubles (by taking off the invidiousness) your glories. Two losing to two are better reconciled, than one to one in that close butchery. The hostile feeling is weakened by multiplying the channels. War be- comes a civil game. By such reasonings as these the old lady was accustomed to defend her favourite pastime.
No inducement could ever prevail upon her to play at any game, where chance entered into the composition, for nothing. Chance, she would argue
— and here again, admire the subtlety of her con- clusion ; — chance is nothing, but where something else depends upon it. It is obvious that cannot be glory. What rational cause of exultation could it give to a man to turn up size ace a hundred times
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together by himself? or before spectators, where no stake was depending ? — Make a lottery of a hundred thousand tickets with but one fortunate number — and what possible principle of our nature, except stupid wonderment, could it gratify to gain that number as many times successively without a prize? Therefore she disliked the mixture of chance in backgammon, where it was not played for money. She called it foolish, and those people idiots, who were taken with a lucky hit under such circumstances. Games of pure skill were as little to her fancy. Played for a stake, they were a mere system of over-reaching. Played for glory, they were a mere setting of one man's wit — his memory, or combination-faculty rather — against another's ; like a mock-engagement at a review, bloodless and profitless. She could not conceive a game wanting the sprightly infusion of chance, the handsome excuses of good fortune. Two people playing at chess in a corner of a room, whilst whist was stirring in the centre, would inspire her with insufferable horror and ennui. Those well-cut similitudes of Castles and Knights, the imagery of the board, she would argue, (and I think in this case justly) were entirely misplaced and senseless. Those hard-head contests can in no instance ally with the fancy. They reject form and colour. A pencil and dry slate (she used to say) were the proper arena for such combatants.
To those puny objectors against cards, as nur- turing the bad passions, she would retort, that man is a gaming animal. He must be always trying to get the better in something or other : — that this passion can scarcely be more safely expended than
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upon a game at cards : that cards are a temporary illusion; in truth, a mere drama; for we do but play at being mightily concerned, where a few idle shillings are at stake, yet, during the illusion, we are as mightily concerned as those whose stake is crowns and kingdoms. They are a sort of dream- fighting; much ado, great battling, and little blood- shed; mighty means for disproportioned ends: quite as diverting, and a great deal more innoxious, than many of those more serious games of life, v/hich men play without esteeming them to be such.
With great deference to the old lady's judgment in these matters, I think I have experienced some moments in my life, when playing at cards for noth- ing has even been agreeable. When I am in sick- ness, or not in the best spirits, I sometimes call for the cards, and play a game at piquet for love with my cousin